Games of Otterburn 1388

by Charles Randolph Bruce

  Adam Buckham and the burgesses filed out of the chamber leaving the few nobles alone.

  Hotspur looked at the bedraggled, demoralized men and called a page for wine and food to be brought as he was expecting their thoughts to materialize into some sort of plan to which he could apply himself and his army on the morrow and knowing that any plan would be dependent on the bishop showing up with at least six thousand troops to add to the present numbers. On the other hand so much was dependent on the actions of the Scots who had dominated the scene since their abrupt arrival less than two days back.

  Lord James Douglas, realizing his plunder had most likely reached Otterburn, gathered his thousand knights and men-at-arms, less those forty-three who had been killed upon the silage field, and prepared to leave heading in a north-westerly direction toward Otterburn to rejoin his gathering army.

  As a calculated beckoning arm, Douglas took Hotspur’s lance pole and placed it point down in the mud in the center of the field where Hotspur had lost it. The pennon he hung on his saddlebow and patted it fondly hoping Hotspur would be true to his word and come to repossess it before he got to Scotland.

  Long before any light was in the sky the Scots were completely gone as if they had never been there except for the trampled field, the pennonless lance pole and the braggadocios and dazed spy who had been supinely staked to the ground in plain view, arms out and legs spread with a blindfold over his eyes.

  August 18 - Before Dawn

  -Pointeland-

  Seven Miles from Newcastle

  The spark was struck with flint and steel catching the tender then small whittled stripes of kindling were added to build the fire bigger. Visually the flame was intense in the predawn night as the Scots archers one by one stepped into the ambience of the flame and placed the lamp-oil soaked rag-tipped arrows into the fledgling flame just long enough to catch it afire.

  One by one they went to the clearing overlooking the sleeping village of Pointeland whose castle sat on higher ground beyond the houses and out buildings.

  One by one they released their deadly fiery missiles toward the thatched roofs of the houses while James Douglas gave the order to start the cacophonic din of their hunting horns from his thousand men.

  Within moments the sky was lit as bright as day with the fast kindled thatch that even the recent rains failed to protect. The villeins were certainly alerted and quickly took to their heels in a blathering magma of confusion.

  Atop the tower wall the guards saw the town seeming to spontaneously come to fire in an instant swoop. They saw the people running amok and the horns setting up a fearful racket.

  “Awaken the lord!” screamed the warden of the guard to a close by sentry who quickly ran down the stone steps and entered the top level of the tower house. He hammered on Sir Aymer’s wooden door hard and was not shy with screaming, “Lord, Lord, Awaken My Lord. Something terrible is happening in the town!”

  “Within seconds the door flew open and Sir Aymer de Athol, dressed in nothing more than his quickly donned long nightshirt and sleeping cap with its untied strings dangling on his shoulders, appeared at the door.

  “Town’s afire, Milord!” spat the sentry.

  “Be to the battlements momentarily,” he said excitedly then added as a secondary thought. “Ring the bell to wake up the rest of the castle.”

  Within minutes Sir Aymer was overlooking the disaster.

  “Who you reckon it is, Milord?” asked the startled warden of the garrison called Gilbert.

  “Scotch, they are,” said the laird. “Scotch from Newcastle bound for hell… I imagine!”

  “Looks to be they brought hell with them, Milord,” he replied as they both watched the flames growing high above the house roofs.

  The flying embers that raced on the updraft reached the height of the five story tower parapet.

  “What you reckon they want?” asked the Sir Gilbert.

  “Me,” answered the laird soberly.

  “We have no way to counter them, Milord,” said the warden. “There must be just too many for our small garrison.”

  “Must be,” he agreed, “but we really don’t know how many there are in that blackness.”

  Archers and spearmen came quickly to the parapet level but there was nothing for them to do except feel the searing heat and watch the destruction of the town below.

  “Be in the solar,” said Sir Aymer forlornly.

  The warden thought him a sad figure of a man in his long sleep shirt and cap trudging toward the stone block steps to his private quarters to get dressed and prepare for the long journey to Scotland he knew was inevitable.

  The laird sent word to his stable groom in the bailey to saddle his horse.

  He put what gold and silver he had in a pouch belted around his waist and called for Gilbert.

  “Milord, you sent for me?” asked Gilbert on his arrival. His focus was driven by the small window of thick glass on the outside wall to Sir Aymer’s back as it looked as if it was afire itself in contrast to the few lighted candles around the solar room.

  Sir Aymer took his sword from his bed and handed it to Sir Gilbert in the nearly vein hope he could retrieve it after his ransom was paid. “If you never again see me on this earth the sword is yours,” pledged Aymer solemnly.

  Sir Aymer had been the liege lord of Sir Gilbert for a number of years and his loyalty was beyond reproach. “I need for you to do for our folk what I would do if I were able,” he said handing about fifty pounds sterling silver to him. “There will be nothing here but burnt out walls and no village… but the land abides and feeds.”

  “Gilbert bowed as he accepted the pouch of coins. “I hope I am worthy,” said Gilbert sadly.

  “No need for sad singin’ and slow walkin’,” advised the laird. “‘Tis time for rare deeds and true joy!”

  Gilbert raised his head, smiled and gird the sword about his waist.

  “That’s the spirit, my son!” he said proudly. “Nothin’ lasts forever… and yet it does.”

  Gilbert could only nod as he choked back tears welling in his eyes.

  “Come with me, Sir Gilbert,” said his liege. “I want you to get the inmates from the castle out the postern gate and into the wood.”

  “I will, Milord,” said Gilbert walking fast to keep up.

  “Take care of our villeins,” he added. “Some are old and don’t get along very well any more,”

  “Yes, Milord. I will… I swear,” he said.

  “Take care what you swear to, my son, for you may have to live up to your word,” said Aymer as he exited the tower door and went into the bailey.

  “Milord,” greeted the groom holding the reins of the saddled horse in his hands. The horse was high spirited and fearful of the close flames. “They may very well kill you on sight, Milord,” he said handing over the reins.

  “Doubt that,” said Aymer. “I will be gone for a while, though.”

  Sir Aymer mounted his chestnut colored horse with Sir Gilbert by his side. “Remember all that I said,” commanded Aymer.

  “I will, Milord,” said the warden with tears welling again in his eyes.

  “You have much to do, my friend,” spoke the laird solemnly. “I will return and rebuild what will be taken from us this night.”

  The inmates instinctively poured from the tower house and gathered in the bailey. They had whatever they could gather in a hurry wrapped in bundles of blankets and other clothing tight in their arms.

  “We will stand faithful, Milord,” said the Sir Gilbert.

  “Open the front gate for me and leave it open. You go quickly out the back!”

  The once doughty knight Aymer de Athol kicked his horse and sauntered out through the rows of still burning houses to meet the men who were bent on destroying his world.

  August 18 - Early Morning

  Carlisle Countryside

  The morning was so dank that every piece of clothing anyone had about them was soaked through to the skin. The gray sky
seemed to have no better report on a day of dryness as it appeared to be, at any moment, prepared to weep more rain on the land.

  “Stay with the killin’ of those who want to fight,” ordered Archibald from the saddle as the fifteen hundred men were spread out across the top of a low ridge peering across the shallow glen of farms and a tiny village.

  “‘Tis time for yer revenge!” cried out Archibald with passion.

  The warriors war whooped at that statement.

  Archibald waved both arms to either side of him giving the signal to his men for them to swoop down and raid the whole valley at once so that the people had no chance of hiding their worldly possessions.

  Archibald and his son William sat their horses as the major portion of their warriors bypassed them and descended into the valley. They fractured into small groups and spread out wide.

  The two Douglas leaders, surrounded by a core contingent of their own elite knights, squires, and mounted men-at-arms casually sallied from their position with their own planned objectives in mind.

  “Hope the sun comes out,” said Archibald pulling his wet britches from what he imagined to be waterlogged ‘wrinkled skin’ on his upper leg.

  “More like than not its goin’ to rain,” pessimistically offered William glancing across the grayness of the sky.

  Archibald scowled at William and kicked his destrier to a faster gait.

  William laughed at his father’s scowl and kicked his horse to catch up. “Ye know the weather is the weather, don’t ye?”

  “I know that,” admitted Archibald. “Don’t mean I gotta like such!”

  “Don’t mean,” agreed William smiling.

  Osbert and his fifteen year old son sat at the base of large trees on the edge of the copse watching the small contingent of Scots investigating their burned house. With them the reavers had a herd of about twenty head of kine and a few scrawny horses.

  “Hope the cow don’t bellow,” whispered Osbert.

  “She’s gettin’ fed a’plenty,” replied Jacob in an angry whisper. “Tell a fact, I’m tired of hidin’ here and I’m ready to just give them the cow and the goats!”

  “The heathens would want to kill us, too,” said Osbert.

  “What for?” jabbed Jacob, “We ain’t done nothin’!”

  “They don’t like our hidin’ from them,” offered Osbert.

  Within the ten foot square sod hovel Osbert and Jacob had build in the wood for just such an emergency, Claricia was holding the smallest of her children who had caught sick from being overly exposed to the wet weather for six days. They could not build a fire to take away the chill of the dampness. The child cried out before the mother could muffle the cry with her bare teat.

  One of the horseback Scots looked toward the copse.

  Osbert and Jacob froze in place.

  Something else caught his attention in the other direction.

  “Second time for their comin’,” said Joseph. “How many more times you reckon they’ll be trampin’ and trampin’here?”

  Osbert shrugged a bit. “As many as they do,” he stoically said holding to the low tones.

  “Got to build the house back,” said Jacob.

  “Chimney’s still there,” said Osbert smiling.

  Soon the contingent of Scots rode on off toward Carlisle driving their herd before them.

  Osbert got from his sitting place and walked back deeper in the wood to report to his wife telling her, “Come and gone… again, they have.”

  “This child will live but a day longer without a dryin’ fire,” said Claricia sadly.

  Osbert ran his fingers through the child’s scant hair and was quiet for a while. He looked at his two older children sitting on the wet ground with their britches soaked, then promised, “Have a fire for ye, I will.”

  “How?” she asked looking up at her husband. “We’ll get caught.”

  “I’m dependin’ on the Scotch not comin’ back soon or in the dark,” he countered.

  “Squeeze a bit of milk from the nanny,” said Clarisia, “Mine’s dryin’ up from not eatin’.”

  Osbert took the one ceramic cup and headed for the rough made shed where the livestock was being kept thinking all the while where he could get dry tender to start the fire then it dawned on him that the interlining of his coat just might work.

  He hoped he and his family would live beyond their ordeal.

  August 18 - Early Morning

  Newcastle-upon-Tyne

  “Is this some sort of Scotch trickery?” growled Hotspur from the tower wall of the West Gate.

  “Your eyes are most certainly better than mine,” said Sir Robert Ogle peering over the wall to the field. “If it is a trick of some sort, there does not seem to be an immediate danger. The Scotch are plumb gone from here.”

  “Who is the dead man?” asked Hotspur wondering.

  “Some figured he was your spy,” replied Ogle turning to look at Hotspur.

  “My spy?”

  “Don’t recognize him?”

  “Too far away, I reckon,”

  Without any notice the blindfolded ‘dead man’ yelled out as if he had no notion as to where he was or to whom he might be saying, “Help!... Any of you! Help!”

  “Bastard’s alive!” judged Hotspur his mouth agape.

  “By God in Heaven, I think you right, Milord!” came back Ogle, his response well tinged with sarcasm.

  Hotspur looked hard at Ogle. “You figured which direction those damned Scotch might’a sauntered?”

  “No notion,” said Ogle plainly.

  “Might well be in the direction of your home place,” said Hotspur angrily.

  Ogle’s demeanor fast changed when he realized Lord Henry had a salient point.

  Hotspur knew he then had Ogle’s attention.

  “Go release our spy from his bindings and see if my lost lance still has my pennon attached to it,” growled Hotspur, his eyes drilling fire into Sir Robert’s.

  “I will send my second,” said Ogle.

  “Go yourself!” demanded Hotspur and it was in the manner in which the warden of Northumberland spoke the words that Sir Robert Ogle bowed his head and left the wall walk, gathered three knights with him and walked to the center of the silage field to fetch the spy and Hotspur’s lance.

  Robert knelt beside the staked out man and removed his blindfolded. The spy blinked at the relative brightness of the day saying, “Who are you?”

  Lord Henry Percy wants to see you,” said Ogle as others untied his hands and feet.

  “Can you walk?” asked Robert.

  “I can,” replied the spy. He got to his hands and knees.

  Robert and the three knights stood back to see the man’s progress. His back was wet with soppy mud and pieces of chaff.

  The spy put one foot out and pushed hard against his stiffened legs to stand. “Need some help, Milord,” he admitted when he realized he was not making progress.

  Ogle nodded and two of the knights helped the man to his feet and put his arms over their shoulders and walked him in through the gate.

  Robert looked all around. Except for the ashes from the multiple fires and the trampled field there was little evidence the Scots had been there or that they had brought such excitement to an otherwise dull venue.

  He looked at the upturned lance and said to the remaining knight, “Ain’t gonna be good news for our Hotspur.

  The knight loosed the lance from the ground and with it in hand followed his liege lord through the West Gate where, still on the wall walk, Hotspur was watching and waiting. He peered down to the pavement just inside the gate tunnel and saw the spy being limped in and set against the outer wall of a close building. Then he saw his pennonless lance set against the wall beside the spy and he went from agitated to apoplectic as he descended the stone steps to the flagstones.

  “No pennon?!” he yelped first in Ogle’s face.

  “No, Milord,” replied Ogle trying to remain calm.

  “Bastard Do
uglas!!” he cursed. “What does the spy have to say for himself?”

  “Never asked him, Milord,” said Ogle.

  “Well… stoop yon and ask him, now!”

  Sir Robert got to one knee to speak to the dazed man. “What were you spyin’ on?”

  “Scotch,” he replied.

  “What did the Scotch do?”

  “Had a great lot of plunder… saw them at Scotch Gap,” reported the spy weakly.

  “Ask how many men with them,” growled Hotspur.

  The spy heard the question from Hotspur’s lips and answered, “Three… four hundred.”

  “This man know how to count?” screamed Hotspur just as the man who could answer the question walked onto the scene.

  “He can count some,” spoke Ralph. “I’m the one who sent him to Scotch Gap. I heard they came south by that way.”

  “He likely to know how many three or four hundred would be?” asked Hotspur coming down from his flash of anger.

  “More likely to know that than if it was thousands he was countin’,” replied Ralph.

  “Where is that main contingent?” he spoke through gritted teeth.

  “This is the first spy we’ve seen come back since the Scotch came, Henry,” advised Ralph. “I say send scouts out to follow the trail of the Scotch.”

  Hotspur stewed a bit then ordered, “Send out our smartest spies and spread them up in the direction of Scotch Gap to see what’s afoot.”

  “I shall,” promised Ralph.

  “I fear that even with all our carefulness… we have been tricked!”

  Sir Robert Ogle standing near by was sure of it but gave not a word of counsel. He looked at the lance with the missing pennon and realized Sir James Douglas was setting a trap hoping Hotspur would follow him to retrieve the pennon and thereby meet his ruin.

  Within the hour eight scouts were sent in a strategical spread from the northwest to the west hoping they could find the illusive contingent of Robert Stewart, Earl of Fife and his main force of so many thousands.