Games of Otterburn 1388

by Charles Randolph Bruce

  The dog eventually tagged the wain where the young Scottish lass sat thinking of her and her brother’s home in Gallway that was known on maps as Galloway. She prayed they still had family there who would remember them.

  August 18 - Morning

  Castle Warkworth

  Northumberland

  The kitchen maid knocked gently on the door of the Earl’s bedchamber.

  “Come,” was the single word order that told the guard at the door to lift the latch, push the door wide allowing the young wench to enter with her tray of food ordered by Lord Henry.

  She did not lay eyes on the man but knew to set the bowls and trenchers of food onto the table in the well lighted room. She did as she knew to do and quickly left through the same door from which the view of the interior of the chamber was blocked by an antechamber.

  Earl Henry Percy emerged from the smaller attached chamber with a fresh washed face and a robe loosely tied around his waist. He drew the curtains back on the large bed saying, “Sun’s up, Maude.”

  She blinked a bit and looked toward the large stained glass window then to the face of her husband, Percy, as she liked to call him. She drew the silk lined fur coverlet back from her nude body and pushed up high on the well downed pillow.

  “Got a breakfast for you, my dear,” he said gently.

  “Kind of you,” she replied noticing her sagging breasts. She took the palms of her hands and raised them higher to where they once were. It was nothing she had not done before but she remained amazed at the differences in her sixty-four year old body and even a few years earlier.

  She glanced over to her much younger husband and was tinged with a moment of jealousy then it passed as she began to admire his strong body under the thinness of his sheer robe.

  She released her breasts and pushed under the cover some so that they did not show as drooping but were pushed up by the furry cover.

  “Percy?” she called lightly.

  Henry turned to her, “Yes?”

  “Love me,” she requested.

  Henry was surprised by her forwardness but he did love her and enjoyed sleeping beside her in bed. She was certainly older than his first wife Margaret with whom he had had five children including Hotspur and Ralph but with Maude came the arrangement of the expansive lands of the Lacy family.

  She was, even at her age, a sensual beautiful woman to him and who was skilled in the bringing of pleasures to a man under the cover of darkness.

  “Now?” he asked curiously to her question.

  She smiled and answered, “Now, my Percy.”

  He stood over her and pulled the covers back some to expose more of her lightly pink body.

  She reached under his robe and ran her hand up his inner thigh.

  He stood still for a moment of pleasure then with her other hand she loosed his waist tie and the robe fell to the floor.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and she giggled like a school girl but she was glad she wasn’t one when he came on top of her in his gentle manner that she lived for.

  “I do love you, so much, my Percy,” she admitted then taking him fully into her arms she began to breathe faster.

  She knew he could not say the words to her but that was a small point as she could feel his love and passion completely in the silence filled with great breaths of exciting life. She did find the tapestry on the wall of angels and cherubs a most heavenly delight and vowed to ask again for love in the morning.

  Soon there was another light knock on the door that was answered by the same one word command, “Come.”

  It was the Steward of the castle who opened the door and announced, “Messenger from Carlisle, Milord. Has the seal of Sir Ralph Neville on it.”

  “Take him to the great hall and feed him,” said Henry resolutely. “Be there directly.”

  “Yes, Milord,” spoke the steward and closed the door easily.

  Henry rolled to the edge of the bed and placed his feet on the floor. “Did have hot spiced cider for us,” he said casually. “So… would you like to have a cup of cold spiced cider, my dear?”

  She smiled warmly and got to the edge of the bed beside him. She looked down at their twenty toes lining across on the flagstones. It seemed an insignificant vision but it pleased her all the same.

  “Get dressed, my Percy,” she urged, “Your message might be important.”

  Henry shrugged but silently agreed she was right and began to dress.

  She headed for the garderobe saying she was going to have her bath prepared after she ate.

  He finished dressing and left the solar without another word. When he got to the great hall three stories below the solar he was met by the steward again.

  “Prepare an egg breakfast and have the messenger come to me right away,” he ordered brusquely then turned to the head table on the dais to receive his messenger.

  A man of about twenty-five years quickly appeared. He had on traveler’s clothes and a long thin feather swooping back from his tight fitting cap which he doffed and bowed low drawing the pouch from beneath his left arm to his front. Standing again he opened the flap and withdrew a parchment that was held together with a red wax spot impressed with the familiar seal of his father-in-law, Sir Ralph Neville.

  “Milord,” said the messenger upon presentation of the missive.

  Henry took it and broke the seal not knowing what to expect. He read the words then he saw his steward anticipating he would be needed and so was dutifully standing by. Henry waved him over to the long table.

  “Hold this messenger and call my warden of the garrison… and return with him. We have serious plans to hatch,” said Henry then quickly added, “My food?”

  “Yes, Milord,” he answered and a swift follow up with, “Will see to your food as I go, Milord.”

  Henry returned to the quick scrawled hand of his erstwhile father-in-law and read again. By the second time through he thought he understood the significance of the words and what was to be considered between the words which he took as a veiled threat of doom for both sides of the march regions. Then he knew he was not about to refuse anything wanted by Sir Ralph.

  A silver platter of roast beef and four small flat fried eggs with a loaf of top buttered bread and warm ale was placed before him in a grand style by three pages of the castle.

  Without a word he pulled the food closer to him and started to eat. It wasn’t long before the steward arrived with the warden in tow.

  “Milord,” said the steward inserting a shallow bow.

  Henry took a swig of the ale and began his say, “Write this down. I want this carried out exactly as I intend to relay it to you.”

  Anticipating the need the steward waved a scribe to him.

  Henry offered them the bench seat at the front of the table. They sat and listened as Henry ate some of his eggs and beef.

  “I know where those damned Scotch are for the most part,” he started.

  The scribe waited for something more specific to actually write down.

  Henry wondered if the scribe knew how to write but continued anyway. “They have thousands in Cumberland and are raiding not only in Carlisle but down the Eden Valley on Clifford’s lands and everywhere in that bailiwick, they are.

  The scribe scribbled fast dipping his quill again and again.

  “We’ve got to get our army from Newcastle and hie for Carlisle!” growled Henry pounding the table so hard it made the platter and trencher jump, The cup of ale he caught in mid air or it would have splashed on his three already jittery minions.

  “We can take somewhere around five hundred from our garrison if we’re not further threatened here at the castle,” said the warden.

  “My understandin’ is the Scotch are in Newcastle and Carlisle… no where else!” snarled the earl while chewing a bite of meat. “How many does that leave us here?”

  “Two hundred, more or less,” replied the warden.

  “Wonder how many troops Lord Henry can spare from Newcastle?” op
enly asked the warden.

  “Not too many, I would imagine, with that James Douglas in that neighborhood,” replied Percy.

  “We can pick up men as we go across the country,” advised the warden.

  “Can you lead our pack?” asked Henry pointing to the warden.

  “Honored, Milord,” he came back in an instant.

  “A’right. Send a message to Lord Thomas Umfraville to get what men he has under him. You, warden, will take our five hundred and go to Harbottle and meet up with Umfraville.”

  “So we’ll be under the command of Lord Thomas?” asked the warden.

  “So you will,” said Henry. “Does that gall you?”

  “I’m a’right with it, Milord.”

  Henry nodded. “Send a runner to Newcastle to tell young Henry what’s happenin’—He’ll pass the news on to Skirlaw so they can get men from Durham to Carlisle as soon as they can manage. I’ll stay here in case they come this way!”

  The scribe was scrawling faster.

  “You’ll have but the two hundred contingent here, Milord,” advised the warden.

  “Stretched all over, we are,” said Henry pragmatically pulling a chunk of bread from the loaf and skinning the lighter cooked top from the dark bottom that he threw to the awaiting dogs. The dogs argued some but the biggest of them got the most part of the loaf.

  Henry wrapped a piece of beef with the bread and continued eating.

  He looked at the nervous scribe. “You best get my letters right,” he threatened.

  “Be ready for your seal post haste, Milord,” said the young man picking up his scratch parchment, ink and quill, bowing and with another quick, “post haste, Milord,” he seemed to have vanished with no more ado.

  August 18 - Early Afternoon

  Castle Warkworth

  Later that morning Earl Henry had another more personal message written by the scribe.

  “Your new message to Sir Henry is ready, Milord,” said the steward as he came to Henry in the bailey where the blacksmith was putting hammer to steel for a long-blade dagger the earl hoped to carry into battle when next he went. He was fascinated with the process of twisting iron bars into steel then into sharp useful tools.

  “You read it?” asked the earl.

  “No, Milord,” replied the steward holding the one time folded parchment out toward Henry.

  “Read it to me,” demanded Henry. “I can hardly make out that bastard scribe’s scrawlin’s.”

  The steward opened the parchment as the pair drifted away from the hammer pounding of the smithy.

  “Just read the important part,” instructed the earl then stood to listen.

  “Says, Milord,” he began, “Fife’s army is not in Northumberland as you imagine but in Cumberland raiding. Message from your grandfather says he is under attack at Carlisle. Need assistance fast as an army can get there. Many lives are being sacrificed. My son, I am sending five hundred from Warkworth and am soliciting the aid of Lord Thomas Umfravilles to raise an army to go to the support of Carlisle… Your father, Henry,” he finished.

  “Good,” said Henry taking the parchment from the hand of the steward. “Get the messenger and send him to me at the stable.”

  “Yes, Milord,” said the steward bowing then walk-ran into the castle to fetch the messenger, Roger.

  “Saddle the dapple,” instructed the earl who came to the approaching groom.

  “Yes, Milord,” he replied turning to do the earl’s bid.

  “The messenger’s horse?” asked Henry.

  The groom turning back said, “‘Tis here.”

  “Put the man’s tack on the dapple.”

  “Yes, Milord,” again replied the groom bowing just low enough to show the acceptance of his servitude.

  “He can have his back when he returns my dapple,” added Henry.

  “Yes, Milord,” replied the groom again then hesitated for a moment to see if there would be more instruction.

  “Be gone with you!” spat the earl narrowing his eyes.

  Soon the steward guided Roger to the stable where Henry still stood admiring the waddling geese as they made their way from one eating venue to another in an endless repetition of activity. He thought one would do well for his supper.

  “Your man, Milord,” said the steward with Roger in close tow.

  “I’m givin’ you a fresh horse. The best in my stable,” said Henry, “I want you to read this message, even know it by heart because if it is lost you will need to tell my son what was written.”

  “Milord, I cannot read,” admitted Roger.

  Henry drew it back and looked at the man hard then pushed the message into the air before the steward saying, “Read it to him!”

  As the steward read the message once again out loud the dapple stallion was brought to the fore, the reins in the hand of the walking groom.

  Roger heard the words and was handed the parchment. He folded it and placed it into his leather pouch as he approached his new ride he took the reins from the groom’s hand and patted the horse on its jaw.

  “This will be your most important ride. Go by the lowlands where there is no roadway. When you come to the Tyne you will know Newcastle is close by.”

  “Milord,” said Roger as he climbed into his familiar saddle. “I am off!”

  Henry stood back as Roger kicked his fresh ride out of the bailey gate through the village and south along the coast toward Newcastle.

  There rides fate if I ever witnessed it afore, thought Henry watching him disappear into the distance.

  The route to Newcastle was somewhere around fifteen miles and Roger was expecting to easily be in Newcastle before night fall. He turned toward Pointeland village to use it as a landmark and when he got closer he noticed the thin strand of smoke coming from where he thought Pointeland stood.

  “Who ye reckon that is?” said one of the two Scottish scouts sitting their horses under the cover of tree limbs at a higher elevation than where Roger was riding.

  “English messenger,” said the second scout noticing the pouch over his shoulder and moving in sync with the rider’s bobbing rump.

  The two scouts looked at each other.

  “Yer the better shot,” said the one, “take it.”

  The second man got from his horse and unfastened his bow from the saddle-strap. He withdrew an arrow from his quiver and had it nocked by the time he got to the open edge of the wood.

  Roger saw the Scot emerge from the trees and kicked the dapple stallion hard and lowered his body as close to the horse’s neck as he could get it.

  The archer was not disturbed by the fast running horse, He drew the heel of his right hand back to the hollow of his cheek with his left on the bow handle and fully extended. He aimed ahead of the rider and loosed his grey-goose barb.

  While it was traveling the archer got another arrow from his quiver and had it nocked and ready by the time the first arrow missed the target.

  He loosed his second as the rider whipped the horse and got further away.

  He reached for a third arrow and nocked it then paused seeming to guide the second arrow to its mark by shear will.

  It struck the dapple deep in the upper neck. The horse rose up high on its hind legs at the shock of being hit, throwing Roger hard onto the ground.

  The horse bucked and writhed to get the stinging arrow from his neck as blood was spurting and slinging in every direction. In the throes of his dieing fit he trampled Roger who was out cold and did no more than grunt as the breath was knocked from his lungs.

  “Ye got him,” exclaimed the second scout coming to the archer.

  “Aye, I got him,” agreed the archer.

  Holding out the reins to the archer’s horse he added, “Let’s get the pouch.”

  The pair rode to the scene where the dapple horse was on the ground and almost dead from loss of blood. His fearful eyes were looking at the Scots as they got from their horses to retrieve the pouch.

  “He’s ‘bout dead same a
s his horse,” said the first scout lifting the man’s arm and threading it through the pouch loop.

  “Ye killin’ him for sure?” asked the second.

  “Just want the pouch,” he replied pulling the strap over the top of his head. He reached over the man and picked up the hat with the long cock feather and put it on his own head.

  “What if he comes to himself?” asked the archer.

  “Worst case if he lives is that he’s lost his hat,” replied the first. “I’ll take the pouch to Lord Douglas.”

  “I’ll stay here and keep an eye out,” said the archer retrieving his arrow from the dead horse’s neck and slinging the blood off the head he put it back into his quiver.

  “Yer other one’s back a bit,” said the first.

  “I ken where it is,” he said then added as he realized the lateness of the day. “Ye just as soon stay the night here and get on at first light.”

  August 18 - Afternoon

  Blakeman’s Law

  Near OtterburnVillage

  The sun was midway in the western sky when Douglas and his army came into the low gently undulant hills of Blakeman’s Law. The thousand horsemen had been traveling the thirty-one miles from Newcastle since before day break stopping only once to burn the town and castle of Pointeland and capture their single prisoner.

  James Douglas had dispatched spies along the trail from Newcastle to Otterburn as they traveled. The spies were armed with only daggers and bows with arrows and rode the swiftest horses available within the ranks of his men and were to be his alarm system when, and if, Hotspur followed.

  It had been the task of Sir Alexander Ramsey to survey the landscape around the Village of Otterburn and to choose the site that best embodied the requirements of James Douglas to create a defensive position and a venue from which the herd of hoofed plunder could be taken care of satisfactorily.

  Sir Alexander Ramsey was quite aware of the approach of the earl and his contingent. The out-flanking scouts had been reporting to him of the column’s progress since before noon so he and Sir John Halliburton went down the road to personally welcome Earl James Douglas to their temporary fortress.