Games of Otterburn 1388

by Charles Randolph Bruce

  “‘Tis,” said Mungan suspiciously eyeing the man. “Who ye be?”

  “One of Lord Hotspur’s spies!” he proudly announced completely unaware that he was among the Scots. “Got an important message for my lord, too.”

  “What?” asked Adara with a feigned English accent while she smiled disarmingly. She stepped closer to the spy, looked up into his eyes and placed her hand on his leg in pretend affection.

  He smiled at her attention and bragged, “Saw them Scotch with a goodly lot of plunder, I did.”

  “Were you afraid?” she asked, her brows sympathetically arching.

  “Not me,” he said sitting tall on his horse and smiling widely.

  “Where’d you see such a sight?” pushed Adara. Mungan’s temper was growing short as he thought she was setting her cap for the bastard spy.

  “Scotch Gap, ‘twas,” he said still on his high horse.

  Mungan had had enough and motioned for the spy to lean down where his face was closer to his saddle. When the man did, Mungan hit him hard on the face and grabbed the reins.

  He jumped back in surprise but it was too late for any reaction against the highland giant.

  “Why’d ye do that?!” said Adara slipping back to her natural Scottish accent.

  “‘Cause ye liked him… maybe,” he muttered.

  The spy, not knowing what hit him went a bit faint in the saddle.

  “Ye jealous?” she asked smiling.

  He grumped not wanting to admit to any form of jealousy.

  “Ye walk this man o’er to yer liege lord yon,” she instructed pointing to the earl on horseback moving through the gathered warriors, “tell him what he just told us and I figure ye’ll then know ye got no reason for jealousness!”

  Mungan grumped again not believing her.

  “Go on!” she pushed him.

  Reluctantly he plodded across the field. She walked a few feet behind. The spy, still in the dark about Mungan’s attitude turned in the saddle and smiled at Adara.

  She shot him a sarcastic smile and waved her hands to encouraged Mungan to move faster.

  Mungan got to where Earl John was and weakened. He was far from sure if he should even talk to the great noble. He took a deep breath and holding the reins to the spy’s horse out as an offering. Bowing his head he began to tell the earl what the spy had told them…

  On his finish he looked at Adara and she proudly smiled at him as the near crowd was pleased the spy had been taken.

  “Get him off his horse,” ordered John.

  As the spy got to the ground he was asked by John, “When did ye see the Scots?”

  The spy realizing he had already told all the important news and fearing retribution from his English lords asked, “You’ll not be a’tellin’ them inside that I spoke?”

  “We don’t talk to them inside,” said John, “and we’ll be turnin’ ye loose when we leave… ye’ll be free.”

  “Last evenin’ ‘round sundown, ‘twas,” admitted the spy.

  John hoped he was too dense to tell lies.

  The trumpet from the wall blew and John Dunbar knew the tourney was about to happen.

  The heavy iron bound double doors at the West Gate were flung open and out came Hotspur in all his glory playing to the cheering warriors who lined the wall walk over looking the field.

  Following were Sir Ralph and his twenty knights dressed in their best regalia.

  Douglas got atop his borrowed stallion ‘Sorrow’ and gave it a friendly pat on its withers.

  “Best take this,” said George holding the spear close to Douglas. “He’s out with his lance.”

  Douglas nodded his agreement and fit his helm over his head and adjusted the sharp snouted face visor void over his brow so his face showed.

  “Be aware,” advised George as Douglas took the spear.

  “I’m always aware, George. Weary not… this will be amusing!” he said

  With that Douglas casually sallied to the edge of the far end of the silage field alone. His knights sitting horse came in a line behind him.

  Hotspur came to the center of the muddy field and waited, his lance proudly held upward, the butt into its proper leather that hung from the saddle.

  “You ready?” shouted Hotspur across the field.

  “At yer pleasure,” answered Douglas just before lowering the visor on his helm.

  Hotspur nodded and lowered his visor.

  The crowds on both sides cheered wildly in anticipation.

  Hotspur lowered his lance and kicked his horse hard in the ribs.

  Douglas lowered his stout spear and kicked spurs to his horse.

  They galloped toward each other at best speed while lowering their lances poised to strike the opponents shield dead center.

  The sound of lance strikes in single combat was like a thunderclap best understood only at a personal level.

  Both men reeled in their saddle as they passed.

  Their shields had single deep scars embedded on their newly painted surfaces.

  They wheeled and came at each other again slinging mud behind them.

  Douglas was ready to see what Sorrow could do as he loosed his reins a bit and held his shield tighter.

  The clash came the same as the first but nothing was the same for Hotspur as his great black Freasian slid in the mud and his lance went flying to the side of the field sticking up at an angle.

  Hotspur cursed inside his closed helm. The wall grew silent for a half moment then came back in high anger with many a fist in the air, some holding swords and daggers.

  Douglas smiled inside his helm at his success but the tourney was far from over.

  “This could get bad, George,” said John.

  “Our welcome could be worn right thin,” said George as they intently watched the field for possible trickery.

  Sorrow swished his tail as if knowing his part in the fight.

  Douglas threw his spear to the ground and raised his visor just long enough to spout, “What next?!”

  Hotspur looked at his lance and knew that was lost even though it was a good advantage for him. He pulled his sword from its scabbard, held it high and kicked his Friesian in Douglas’ direction.

  Douglas waited until the last second where he raised up in his stirrups and slammed his blade hard onto Hotspur’s helm. Hotspur reeled again but shook his head as he returned the blow on Douglas’ shield, his horse’s hooves slipped on the mudded silage.

  Douglas went to work on that knowledge and without pity or the idea of chivalry he slammed Hotspur’s shield again and again until the blue, red and yellow paint chipped in many places.

  As Hotspur tried to recover his horse it slid more in the mud.

  Douglas had no interest in killing Hotspur as that would have spoiled his plan but he was not about to be bested by him either.

  The English spy standing beside Mungan said, “I figure our Lord Henry’s gonna win!”

  Mungan growled menacingly at the youth and he knew to keep his mouth shut about anything more.

  Hotspur came back on Douglas his sword in the air and his shield fixed.

  Sorrow bolted before Douglas could spur him and ran hard into the black Friesian’s chest then he turned and kicked him with mighty hind legs making the horse slide again.

  Addlepated Hotspur forced his Friesian closer and took as many frantic swipes as he could at Douglas’ shield trying to get a solid blow on his body. They went around and around exchanging these strikes until the English knight was exhausted.

  The black Friesian was damaged and he limped on his left foreleg.

  Hotspur rode away a number of paces to try and reorganize his mind. The mud played poorly with the large horse that otherwise would have done well on dry ground.

  Douglas wondered what Hotspur was about when he espied the lance standing at an angle in the mud where it would be easy for him to snatch up.

  Hotspur waddled his head back and forth to signal to the watchers he had a difficulty with
his head.

  Sorrow lightly trotted across the field as Douglas gracefully bent down, grabbed the lance and held it high to his folk. They hooted and war whooped loudly.

  Douglas maneuvered Sorrow across from Hotspur as Ralph came to his brother. “Why not call for another mêlée skirmish?” asked Ralph.

  Hotspur raised his visor and angrily admitted, “We’ve been beaten… by the mud!”

  Ralph could not believe his brother was done and he pounded his saddlebow with his gauntleted fist then he suddenly realized Douglas was holding the lance upon which was attached his brother’s pennon.

  Douglas raised his face visor and sardonically smiled.

  Ralph went into a rage and started to draw his sword.

  Knights on both side reached for their swords, too.

  Hotspur was livid but he was not about to be goaded further than he wanted to be at that moment.

  He stayed Ralph’s hand and shouted to Douglas, “I see you have my pennon!”

  “And I intend to keep it ‘til ye win it back,” he replied holding his broad smile.

  “On the morrow when it is a dryer field, perhaps?!” offered Hotspur.

  “I will place yer lance upright in the mud at my tent flap this day,” said Douglas in high spirit. “Come get it at yer leisure, sir!” he challenged. “And if ye fail to retrieve yer honored pennon, I shall have it as a token of victory, affixed to the mantel in the great hall at my Castle Dalkeith in Lothian!”

  Hotspur became apoplectic. So much so that he did not trust his own anger but shaking with fury as he was, spoke a strong threat of his own, “My pennon, sir, will never-ever-leave-England-in-your-hands!”

  Douglas laughed and to purposefully rub salt into an already wounded pride he added, “If ye durst have the will!” He then reined his destrier around and rode away from Hotspur showing his back and triumphantly holding the hard-won lance by the vamplate while the pennon was bouncing to the gait of the horse.

  The Scots crowed and hooted loudly.

  The wall was embarrassingly quiet.

  “We’ll get it back tomorrow,” growled Sir Ralph at his brother’s elbow.

  Hotspur turned and gave Ralph a hard thump on his chain mail armor to relieve his anger but it only hurt his own hand. He grimaced but was thankful for the distracting pain as he reluctantly turned his limping horse and left the field.

  Ralph was second across the drawbridge followed by the twenty knights who felt cheated that they were not invited to join in a ‘hoped for’ mêlée battle that was far from the original scheme of the planned event.

  August 17 - Evening

  Newcastle-upon-Tyne

  The small contingent of Scots rallied around their hero with accolades galore. He was the same man as he was the hour before but they all wanted to touch him and the feared lance of the famous Hotspur Percy.

  Douglas sauntered to his small tent that he considered his temporary lodge and did what he was expected to do. He turned the lance upside point down and pushed it into the still squishy mud with the dangling pennon, the pride of Sir Henry Percy, still attached.

  “Slaughterin’ the last two beefs for our supper!” loudly announced Douglas in his euphoric state.

  Renewed cheers went up.

  Douglas still had the reins of his hero of the hour, the white stallion, Sorrow, that seemed to hold its own sense of warrior pride amid the excitement of the throng.

  The hand of Sir John Edmonstone reached up to pull his horse’s head close to him. He had been so proud about the stallion’s performance.

  “Ye’ve a fine knight’s destrier there,” bragged Douglas. “How’d ye train him to fight in the mud?”

  “Grew up in the mud, he did,” said Edmonstone. “What I taught him was the rammin’ and kickin’ part.

  Douglas laughed.

  Edmonstone laughed.

  All within ear shot got a good laugh from that say.

  Earl George came to Douglas just as he was thanking the knight for the loan of his horse and an offer of blending blood lines since their homes were close in Lothian.

  George got Douglas’ attention and spoke in low tones. “We’ve seized an English spy.”

  “Still alive?” asked Douglas quickly.

  “Not only that but the ones who captured him tricked him into tellin’,” said George still being quiet.

  “What’d he tell?”

  “Swinton rounded Scots Gap last evenin’,” said George.

  Douglas smiled. “Must be in Otterburn by now!” cried Douglas with delight.

  “Must be, I reckon,” agreed George breaking into a wide smile of his own.

  “Means we can leave here ere dawn break,” said Douglas.

  “And we will!”

  Those who lingered on the wall overlooking the fairly vacant silage field were seething at the Scot’s celebrated whooping and they swore personal vengeance in the name of Hotspur. The ambient air was ripe with rancid loathing.

  Sir Matthew Redman stood among those expressing such odium for the Scots but his disposition was secretly satisfying as he figured Hotspur had been due this comeuppance and even more.

  Inside the thatched covered stable behind the castle proper Hotspur stood relatively calm. The attending farrier felt the black stallion’s left foreleg working his thin gnarled fingers down the length of the various muscle groups to the fetlock, he payed close attention to the horse’s reactions as he went.

  The farrier then stood tall and hesitated, stroking his graying beard, wanting to make sure he had as good an opinion of the situation as he could consider, then he carefully spoke, “No broken bones… I reckon…he’ll be a’right after a while, Milord.”

  Hotspur nodded, “You’ll stay with him?” he asked solemnly.

  “Yes, Milord,” he replied, then caught in the moment he went far out on a limb adding, “Be tendin’ yer horse good my very self, Milord… I promise.”

  “Best you be keepin’ that promise,” jabbed Hotspur. “I would not like it if you disappointed me!”

  “Never, Milord,” groveled the man, “but…”

  Hotspur, having already turned to leave, looked back to the farrier asking, “but?”

  “But… you must not ride him… ‘til I say.”

  Hotspur growled. He did not like being at the demand of others however he did want the use of his prize stallion once again. Without a word in response he turned and walked from the stable.

  “If your damned “hot” pride had not ridden him from the field he would be mendin’ all the sooner,” muttered the farrier when he at last stood all alone with the magnificent suffering warhorse, a bottle of herb liniment and several rubbing towels.

  The man had little choice but to be optimistic about a cure for the horse because his neck would certainly be wrapped with a hangman’s rope if he failed.

  Inside, Henry threw his ‘not so hot’ spurs onto the highly polished table, the rowels nicking the surface as they skittered.

  The scars did not go unnoticed by the sitting mayor and town burgesses whose partial duty it was to see that the table remained in pristine condition.

  Adam Buckham stood to address the congregation of gathered nobles with the question, “We have commercial boats from far off countries not docking because of this… repulsiveness… at our gate! They have seen rotting corpses casually floating by their hulls and they don’t want to get involved in our mess!”

  “And what do you expect us to do about that?” growled the owner of the spurs.

  “We want to get on with our business, Milord...” replied Buckham not flinching from Hotspur’s reputation. “Our town is over run by at least three times the population, Milord Warden… our sewage system is backing up from over use... Why is it we cannot take these many good English warriors within the walls and chase those few barbarous Scotch rabble from our gate?!”

  A round of agreeing grumbles was heard from the burgesses.

  “We think,” said Hotspur upon standing. He paused fo
r the drama. “because of our spies’ reports… that this is just the van of a much larger main contingent headed by the Earl of Fife lurking here ‘bouts and these few are taunting us to come out in the open and fight them since they have no way to penetrate these walls.”

  “On good authority, you say, Milord,” asked Buckham.

  “As much as you can trust spies, I suppose,” replied Hotspur peering down his nose at the troubled governing body who dared to question his wisdom.

  “And we’re loosing gold revenues on the word of spies you do not seem to totally trust?” chipped back Buckham.

  “Bishop Skirlaw will be here… we think… tomorrow. Then as they arrive we intend to rush out from this bastion and crush them in the jaws,” he explained hitting his fists together to demonstrate his meaning.

  “And what about Fife?” asked Buckham wondering.

  “We will then have an equal force to take him and his ten thousand on in an open battle,” said Hotspur smiling at his own sense of importance.

  The standing burgess still wondered. The mayor looked at Matthew Redman who had a seat at the table. “Do you think this is so?” he pointedly asked.

  “Lord Percy has spoken, what more could I possible append?” replied Redman adding a reassuring smile.

  He looked at Robert Ogle indicating he was asking him the same question. Ogle nodded even though he knew Redman was lying.

  Ralph Lumley gave him the nod when the mayor looked at him as did Sir Ralph Eure.

  Sir Ralph Percy was conspicuously absent having been sent on an errand to commandeer another destrier suitable for his brother to ride while his black stallion was on the mend.

  They who were present were all supposedly in agreement.

  “So, tomorrow will be the end of it?” asked Adam Buckham flatly.

  “The Scotch will be beyond your town walls before the end of tomorrow,” said Hotspur not wanting to have to deal with the local government of gossiping busybodies again and so he finished his say with, “I promise!” and vaguely hoped he could manage to honor his word but did not care so much if the fickleness of circumstance changed his objectives.

  His mind then swung back to the farrier’s words when he had added, I promise, to his say. He thought of Ralph and wondered if an apt destrier could be found so he could go against Douglas again on the morrow.