by Nigel Green
‘Retire!’ I yelled at a couple of troopers who were thrusting at a large man in a black breastplate.
‘Retreat!’
Hurriedly, I seized the reins of a soldier’s horse. Where was that fool with the trumpet? I used the flat of my sword to beat two of our men back towards the rear of the column. Dear God, why didn’t these fools hurry? As soon as they saw even the beginning of the Horse Dance, the whole Scottish Army would go berserk.
‘Move!’ I yelled.
By now Haxx’s volunteers must have targeted a couple of the fleeing Scottish men-at-arms.
I used the point of my sword to prick the rump of the horse in front of me.
‘Faster, you fools!’
But our horses were slowing. Any moment now the Scottish cavalry would ignore their orders and charge us. The provocation of the Horse Dance would simply be too great. Their shock and revulsion would make them want to tear us to pieces. Originally the dance had been invented in the West March to punish soldiers who were found guilty of stealing from their comrades. In that harsh military environment, the barbarity of the dance proved a highly effective deterrent. Until today, it had never been used against the Scots. Dear God, but our men were moving slowly. I had to use the flat of my sword to speed our flight. By now, Haxx’s volunteers would have caught up with the fleeing Scots and used their horses to separate a pair from the others.
‘Move you fools!’
Approaching the Scottish cavalry, they would have used their horses to knock the pair to the ground. The screams of the two men-at-arms would have been plainly audible to the Scottish horsemen. Such collisions are commonplace in battle and result in injury, although they are not necessarily fatal, but the remainder of the Horse Dance is. At first the Scottish cavalry would not have appreciated that, like all dances, there is both a pattern and a rhythm to its movements. No weapons are used and the horses themselves are the dancers. After felling the two men, the horsemen make small bows to them and retire gracefully away from the prone men. Horses will not usually stand on men or seek to injure them deliberately. It can happen in the course of battle, but it usually occurs by chance and not by design; the Horse Dance, however, moves to a different beat. As the first men retire from the fallen figures, three more riders approach and bow to the men on the ground. Then, one after another, they steer their horses towards them. Their horses are familiar with the steps of the dance and know to trample the men beneath them. They move gently this way and then the other. Finally, in obedience to their rider’s soft guidance, they courteously move away to allow the next three riders to take their places, already bowing to the men on the ground as they approach. And so the dance swirls on to the beat of the horses’ hooves until the cries of the bloody forms on the ground subside and they remain completely still.
I felt, rather than heard, the Scots charge. The pressure behind me increased and I was jostled as men sought to flee past me. Their horses’ flanks were streaming now as their riders desperately tried to outrun the Scots behind them.
Dead God though, we were slow. Already the Scots had sent men ahead of us on both our flanks. In a moment, once we were clear of the Scottish wagons, they would use their outriders to come at us from left and right. Striking at us simultaneously, they would force us back onto the spears of their cavalry behind us. In the open, we would be an easy target.
Frantically, I shouldered my horse forward and turned the direction of our flight back towards the wrecked Scottish wagons at the rear of the column. At least there we would have some protection since the overturned wagons and panicking animals would split the Scots and give Dick Middleton a chance to save us. But we were too late. The Scottish outriders caught us in the left flank as we were still turning. The momentum of their charge pushed the survivors towards the wagons. Without lances, we were outranged by their horsemen. Our small force fragmented into groups of dismounted men madly hacking at the Scottish horsemen. But their horses were fresh and they were quick. As soon as we beat off an attack from one direction, they rode at us from another. Their fury showed in the savage handling of their beasts and their cruel cries of triumph as their barbed spears drove into our horses. Men were falling quickly now as we sought cover desperately.
The air was thick with sweat and the smell of blood as they herded us back to where the dying draught oxen still bellowed mournfully in their traces. A group of four or five Scots rode out quickly from their ambush point behind the overturned wagon.
We turned quickly. Then we were running, leaping over fallen men and dodging the flailing hooves of wounded horses. But the Scots were playing with us. As we emerged from the debris of the column, directly ahead a large body of their horsemen sat waiting. There was a sudden shout and their cavalry began to move into a rough crescent formation.
I sighed as I wearily hefted my sword aloft. The Scots had smoked us out of the potential safety of the column and were set to complete their task. There were only half a dozen of us remaining, but it would be better if the older men stood with me. The younger ones might possibly survive and finish as captives. Before I could arrange this, I felt the drumming of hooves on the turf and, bracing myself, wheeled round.
Middleton’s charge swept through the Scots like an immense wave. Attacking from their rear, his troops swept though the Scottish horsemen scattering them in all directions. Some turned to flee, but Dick must have launched a second attack as the scene ahead of me turned into a bloody brawl. Men were flung from their horses. Riderless animals galloped wildly in all directions. As quickly as it had started, it was all over and the horsemen swirled away. The ground in front of us was clear of troops, except for the dead and wounded. We stood with chests heaving and hands shaking. I was covered in perspiration and desperately thirsty. I guessed the others were in the same state.
‘We survived!’ the man next to me wheezed incredulously.
The realisation that we would live seemed to come to us all simultaneously and we smiled in disbelief. I cheerfully clapped the shoulder of the youngest trooper and heard the sound of hysterical laughter. But then, only moments after, the whirr of a Scottish arrow.
I grabbed the nearest man.
‘Let’s get out of here.’
I led them away hurriedly from the Scottish column.
‘Fall in behind the Scottish wagons!’ I told Dick Middleton. ‘Keep pushing them south, but don’t attack them!’
He peered down the hill. Slowly the Scottish column had reorganised itself. All the injured beasts had been dispatched and immobilised wagons abandoned. The dead lay unburied.
‘It’s moving now,’ Dick grunted.
Sure enough, with archers and men-at-arms flanking it, the Scottish supply train was heading south to Berwick.
‘We’ll attack again when they come to the end of the moor at the river crossing.’
‘But they still outnumber us. We took casualties,’ he reminded me hesitantly.
Ignoring him, I gestured at the abandoned wagons.
‘Burn those and leave nothing for the Scots to take to Berwick. Now I’ll join Fennell and you keep herding the Scots towards us.’
He would propel them to the place where I would seek to destroy them completely.
It was Captain Fennell who identified the likely crossing point the Scots would use.
‘They’ll bring their wagons over here.’
He pointed to that part of the riverbank which was flatter than the rest.
‘There’s probably a natural ford here. Now, how do you want to fight them, my lord?’
It was a good question. With the destruction of their cavalry, we had wounded the Scottish force, but it was not necessarily a fatal blow. Marching over the moors the Scots had sufficient archers and men-at-arms to repel Middleton’s men. Had he attacked, their bowmen would have decimated his charge before he could close in and their infantry would have easily finished off any survivors.
Provided the Scottish convoy kept moving across open moorland and remaine
d bunched together, there would be little that Dick could do except skulk after them. He could threaten them but that was about it, particularly since the Scottish archers would not worry about wasting arrows. The wagons would carry numerous arrows for the garrison at Berwick.
But coming to the river the Scots had a problem. Their archers had to counter Middleton’s horsemen at all times. If Middleton crossed the river, the Scots had to send their own archers over. Conversely, if Middleton remained on the far side, the Scots would need to send their wagons over with some of their men-at-arms and only move their archers over when everyone else was safely across.
‘Send a messenger to Middleton!’ I told Fennell irritably. ‘Under no circumstances is he to cross the river. He should threaten the Scots from the far side of the river and only attack when the enemy is totally confused.’
‘Totally confused?’
‘He’ll know what it means,’ I said impatiently. ‘Now let’s get your archers out of sight.’
‘Where do you want them?’
I pointed to the pine forest south of the crossing.
‘Keep them concealed in there. No one advances until I say.’
He wrinkled his brow.
‘Their scouts will spot us.’
John Fennell’s stupidity was making me angry now. Dear God, we still had the majority of the Scottish force to deal with and all he could do was make half-witted observations.
‘What scouts?’ I snapped.
He thought for a moment and then smiled broadly.
‘That’s true, my lord.’ He paused. ‘It’s lucky that you destroyed their cavalry first, isn’t it?’
I stamped my foot in frustration. His frowning face indicated that further profound pearls of wisdom were to be shared with me shortly.
‘So you want Master Middleton to keep those bowmen busy on the other side of the river and we let some of the men-at-arms cross the river?’
‘They’ll send over half their men-at-arms and establish a protective screen.’
‘Of course they won’t be expecting us. It’s lucky that you didn’t use us in the first attack, my lord. They won’t know about us at all – real good fortune, I’d say.’
‘It was all planned!’ I yelled at him, clenching my fists.
He looked dubious.
‘No one could be that cunning. Men say you’re good, my lord, but that would be really clever.’ He shook his head and put his great paw on my shoulder. ‘I’d say that you were just lucky, my lord.’
I burst out laughing as I looked at him. He was smiling now that he had got me to relax. He was a clever man, Fennell. He must have seen how strained and tense I had been when I’d arrived and set himself the task of altering my temper.
‘That’s better, my lord,’ he said gently. ‘Now what do you want to do with those fire pots?’
‘Have them filled with pine wood but don’t use them until I tell you. Now, will you get your men into concealment?’
I watched him chivvy his men into the forest. Then I looked towards the river and started to calculate the angles for arrow fire.
‘Message from Master Middleton.’ Fennell interrupted me as I placed the white marker sticks in the ground. ‘The Scots have quickened their orders of march. They’ll be here in another two hours.’
‘We’ll be ready for them,’ I promised.
‘What happens if the Scots don’t adopt a defensive position when they’ve crossed the river,’ Fennell wanted to know. ‘What happens if they just keep going?’
I shook my head.
‘They wouldn’t dare. Some of Middleton’s horsemen would cross the river and decimate them. The Scottish archers can’t be in two places at the same time.’
He thought about that one, then he grinned.
‘Suppose they divide their archers up, my lord?’
‘They wouldn’t have enough to deal with the bulk of Middleton’s horsemen on the far side.’
He checked my angles of fire and adjusted two of them. Presently, he peered steadily through the trees.
‘Can you see anything?’
‘Dust, my lord. We’ll move back in a while.’
‘Do you want me to advance the men?’
Fennell’s low tones would normally have been audible miles away, but the noise of the creaking carts and lowing oxen drowned out most sound.
‘Not yet.’
I signalled to him to remain where he was and quietly made my way to the edge of the forest.
About a third of the Scottish men-at-arms had crossed the river and were sprawled in a broad arc about 600 paces from the river. Two wagons had already crossed the river and had been moved away from the bank to make room for the remainder. Anticipating a lengthy wait, the drivers had unyoked the horses, which now grazed peacefully.
On the far side of the river, the remaining carts and wagons were preparing to cross. Behind them I caught a glimpse of Dick’s horsemen who lurked out of range of the wary Scottish archers. Quietly I made my way back.
‘Light the fire pots!’ I told Fennell. ‘Leave men to tend them with pine wood, but advance the rest of the archers.’
He leapt to his feet preparing to bellow out the order to the archers, but stopped when he saw my glare. Quietly, he moved round the supine men and formed them into small groups. We advanced silently through the trees. Twenty paces from the start of the clearing, Fennell signalled his men to spread out and I heard the sound of bows being notched.
‘Seems they’ve decided to speed up the crossing,’ muttered Fennell.
He was right. Whether it was the fear of Middleton’s horsemen behind them, or whether the Scots wished to ensure that they reached Berwick by nightfall, I did not know. For some reason though, they had abandoned their previous policy of sending the wagons over one at a time. Instead they seemed to have a number in the river and on our side of the bank; the Scottish infantry was manhandling the heavy wagons up the steep banks.
Fennell looked at me expectantly. I shook my head. We would fire the first few volleys from the shelter of the trees. Obediently, he stuck his arrows in the ground in front of him and the others followed suit. Then, aiming carefully, he fired the first shot. Seeing this, his men did the same. The second volley was already in flight before the first shots hit the Scots.
Some arrows were perhaps deflected by trees and others missed their targets but most did not. The sound of screams and frantic neighing of horses filled the air as the third and fourth volleys slammed into the Scots on the field by the river. I advanced the archers to the marker beyond the treeline to take up the second position.
Ahead of us was a scene of complete pandemonium. Dead and injured Scots lay in groups on the rough turf. Terrified horses galloped wildly, following each other to who knows where. By the river, two wagons had overturned, crushing the men who had been working them.
‘Keep shooting!’
Fennell’s bull-like roar rose above the cacophony of shrieks, groans and neighing.
How necessary the next few volleys were, I did now know. The surviving Scots made no attempt to rush our position; instead they fled downstream or simply cowered behind the wagons. Gradually, the hubbub subsided.
‘Out clubs?’ the scar-faced archer next to me asked.
I shook my head. Some of the wounded Scots might recover and get away.
‘Ask Captain Fennell to bring up the fire pots,’ I told him.
We would advance to the riverbank now to complete the destruction of the Berwick relief force.
We moved forward ignoring the wagons and wounded beasts. On the far side of the river, there must have been well over a hundred wagons. The Scottish archers were still there of course and I guessed their numbers would have been supplemented by men-at-arms who had fled back across the ford. Captain Fennell raised an enquiring eyebrow. The wind was coming in from the coast.
‘Fire at the ones on the right-hand side,’ I commanded him.
At fifty paces his men could hardly miss the wagon
s clustered together by the ford. Presently I smelled smoke and saw clouds drift up lazily from some of the carts.
To my surprise, few arrows were fired from the Scottish side. I guessed that Dick was manoeuvring threateningly and the bulk of their archers were still guarding the northern side of the Scottish position.
A few of the braver Scots attempted to draw water from the river to extinguish the small fires but at short range they were easy targets and toppled lifeless into the water. Behind them the Scottish wagons began to bump into one another as the horses smelled the smoke and moved uneasily.
‘Cease firing.’
I jumped as Fennell’s bull-like roar resounded. I had not realised that he had come up behind me. I wheeled round.
‘Why stop now?’
He pointed across the river.
‘They’ll try to rush us now. It’s the only chance they’ve got.’
He was right of course. Boxed in by Dick on one side and us on the other, the Scots would be forced to use their greater numbers to rush one of us before the fire in the Scottish wagons spread uncontrollably.
‘Spread out!’ Fennell boomed.
They were brave the Scots, but even a ford can slow men down at a time when they need to move quickly. Only a few of them even reached the abandoned wagons in midstream; the rest were washed away in that maelstrom of arrows, their screams silenced abruptly as the water took them.
Some managed to make it back to the far bank but the ground was muddied badly now with the progress of so many wagons and horses. They found it hard to climb back out and in their panic scrambled over each other as our arrows sought out their unprotected backs. They began to fight each other in their desperation to escape the river and their shrill cries and curses could be heard above the jubilant shouts of our archers.
The river was now becoming clogged with Scottish corpses, and I glanced at the far bank. Soon the Scottish position would be totally untenable. They were descending into a state of total confusion.
A number of wagons were now burning fiercely and the flames, fanned by the wind, were moving on to other wagons. Up to now the Scottish drovers had been able to control their plunging beasts, but as the smoke and flames increased, the horses began to panic completely. The animals crashed their loads into other wagons causing the fire to spread more rapidly.
