“Get to your armor and to your horses men and we’ll have our swords well bloodied before the sun sets on this day!” he swore in a high pitched mixture of euphoria and anger.
Hotspur sent a message to Lord Thomas Umfraville in Harbottle that there would be one more need for his gathering army and be ready.
By mid morning Hotspur led his sizable army out from West Gate across the silage field and onto the treacherous road toward Otterburn as Douglas had taken.
Hotspur then knew Fife was not with Douglas and so figured his three thousand knights and men-at-arms was plenty enough to take Douglas’ contingent of what he estimated to be no more than a thousand ortwo to task.
He did not wait for Bishop Skirlaw to arrive at Newcastle with however many men-at-arms he was able to gather up from Durham.
Hotspur was, at last, able to see a good possibility his sworn oath could be realized, that his pennon would be retrieved before it ever crossed the northern border of England into Scotland.
August 19 - Morning
Environs of Pointeland
Sir Gilbert rode his horse watching the trail on the slightly higher elevation where Roger’s dapple mount was killed by a single arrow. Six of his men from the castle garrison rode spread out on both sides of him also watching the trail.
“Yon he is,” said the rider immediately to Gilbert’s right pointing across the man’s horse to the edge of the copse that overlooked the road.
The Scottish scout was hunkered at the forefeet of his horse as he chewed on a piece of dried meat and kept his eyes as far down the road toward Newcastle as he could. His bow and quiver of arrows hung from his saddle bow.
Gilbert thought for a moment deciding how best to capture the man who was obviously waiting for something to happen.
Lacking a better plan he gave the silent signal to spread out in the spy’s direction and rush him as fast as he could.
The Scot was alarmed by the sudden whooping to get the nine English horses animated and jumped on his horse fast making a good sounding whooping noise of his own.
The race was on. If the Scot could outrace Gilbert and his men he could alert the next awaiting scout up the line and if he could not, he would be killed. With that in mind he rode like the wind in a great storm and was putting distance between him and Gilbert’s men when his horse hit too much of an uneven patch in the roadway and stumbled throwing the Scot over the head of the horse as it broke its neck in the hard fall.
The Scottish scout, dizzy from his splay of arms and legs, managed to retrieve his bow and quiver as the Englishmen were baring down on his position.
He ran fast toward the wood where he thought he could survive.
Gilbert realized he could not catch up to the Scot by riding him down through the brambles and had no chance of getting him on foot so he lined his archers up along the edge of the road beside the dead horse and loosed arrows in the direction of the fast running man.
Luck sometimes pays and so it did as one of the loosed missiles found its mark in the runner’s lower back. The shock of the strike stopped his run. He saw the iron head of the shaft exiting his belly. He crouched below the bush line and tugged hard on the shaft to pull it all the way through. Another moment of tears and agony it came out missing two of the three feathers.
Thinking the Scot was fallen dead Gilbert’s men made no quick steps to get to him but were more to sauntering through the uncomfortable bushy terrain gathering their wayward arrows as they went. They were half way across to him when the man they thought was dead jumped to his feet, holding his belly wound with one hand and his weapons in his other, again ran straight for the wood.
When Gilbert got to where the Scot had pulled the arrow through and saw it was missing two feathers he knew the man was already dead but had just refused to lay down.
“What you reckon he was a’waitin’ on, Milord,” asked one of the men.
“If guessin’ was called for,” offered Gilbert, “says I… it would be that the army from Newcastle is headin’ this way and he was the Scotch warnin’ man.”
Playing on that hunch Gilbert decided to wait for the Newcastle army to arrive as he stood with the spy’s dead horse at his feet. Two or three of the men at a time would sit on the belly of the horse while a dog from a nearby croft arrived and gave the carcass an obligatory round of sniffs.
It was not long before Gilbert’s hunch became true as Hotspur’s army was seen coming around a far curve toward the west.
Gilbert got to the back of his horse and parked it in the middle of the narrow roadway.
The first banner he recognized was the blue lion rampant with red labels on the yellow background. ’Tis the Warden of Northumberland,” announced Gilbert. He signaled for the persistent column to hold up.
Hotspur was angered and even resentful by any element impeding his getting to Otterburn but because Gilbert was across the road he had little choice but to draw rein. Most of the others including the horses were thankful for the respite from their relentless pursuit of what most considered Hotspur’s revenge.
“Why did you stop me?!” asked Hotspur abruptly.
Ralph rode his horse to beside his brother.
“This dead horse belongs to a Scotch spy that was waitin’ on you to sally by, Milord,” explained Gilbert.
“Who are you?” asked Ralph suspicious of the interruption.
“Sir Gilbert,” he said. “Warden of the garrison at Pointeland.”
“Passed it back a’ways,” said Hotspur, “Who burnt it?”
“Douglas, I figure,” replied Gilbert.
“And your lord?” asked Hotspur.
“Taken prisoner, he was… before the fire burnt the castle,” advised the knight. “We are sorely wearied for him,”
“Don’t weary, I’ll be releasin’ him when I catch up to Douglas.”
“Where is he now?” asked Gilbert simply out of curiosity.
“Somewhere around Otterburn, we figure,” replied the lord.
“That messenger we got to you of any value?” asked Gilbert.
Hotspur broke into a wide grin. “That your doin’?”
Gilbert counter smiled and modestly nodded.
“You and your lord will be well rewarded when I return,” said Hotspur seemingly anxious to get moving again.
“Thank you, Milord,” said Gilbert then advised, “best rest your mounts or you’ll not get to Otterburn except by ‘shank’s mare’,”
Hotspur ignored the advice and asked about the rider of the dead horse to avert the subject.
Still alive,” said Gilbert turning in his saddle and pointing to the wood where he last saw the Scot run. “He’s belly shot through and through. He’ll not live long nor go far.”
“You figure there’s more spies to tell the message of our comin’?” asked Hotspur.
“There’s more, Milord,” answered Gilbert without hesitation.
Hotspur turned to Ralph and ordered him to get archers on fast horses to go out in front of the advancing column and find the spies and kill them before they have the opportunity to warn Douglas that they are on their way.
Hotspur nodded. “Again I am in your debt, Sir Gilbert,” he said then reined his horse about to continue his obsessive vainglorious journey.
Gilbert got to the side of the road and watched as the warriors passed them by. Soon there were eight horsed archers running on one side of the still moving column and moving ahead of the rest.
Behind them on the inside edge of the copse and clinging to the trunk of a close tree, the Scottish archer was holding his bloody belly and saw what he had so anxiously been awaiting and yet he was helpless to complete his assignment in warning Lord Douglas that his mortal enemy was on his way to kill him.
He sunk to the base of the tree and waited to surely die.
The croft dog of opportunity waited with him… but at a distance.
August 19 - Early Morning
Blakeman’s Law
Earl James Douglas w
as awakened by the crowing of the cocks at the farm on the lower part of the hill where they were camped. He looked about at the darkness on the interior of the canvas tent and acclimated himself to the nature of the day.
He could hear birds communing with one another and men up before he was and talking in low tones about their farms as they sharpened their weapons. Somewhere dogs were barking and running fast for their morning repast. He could tell they had caught the hapless tod by the change of their barks and bawls.
If it is going to rain for the day it’s not started as yet, he thought and then he stretched long touching the front and rear walls of the tent and sat up on his dank coverlets and smelled a rasher of bacon cooking somewhere nearby. He guessed a pig got butchered overnight.
One of his squires, Simon Glendowyn, upon hearing his movements spoke to him through the tent canvas, “Milord, are ye in need?”
“I’m aright,” said James poking his head through the flap slot. “Who’s cookin’ the bacon?”
“I made them cook some for ye, Milord,” admitted the youth. “Got camp bannocks, too!” he proudly announced. “For yer battle day.”
His plan to attack Otterburn Tower that morning had almost escaped his memory. He stood tall outside the tent where his quartered banner lifted and drooped in the light breeze. He touched Hotspur’s pennon dangling on the pole beneath the flag and wondered if that bit of craftsmanship was enough to get Hotspur beyond the Newcastle walls.
Earl George came to Douglas asking, “How do you want to handle the day’s actions?”
The eastern sky was showing light.
“I want you to run practices on our plans we laid out last night,” explained Douglas.
“I can do that,” replied George.
Simon returned with a three pound slab of thick sliced bacon varying in cooked degrees of barely warm to burnt crisp perched on a piece of found wood. “Milord,” said his squire upon presentation.
His second squire, David Coleville, brought six or seven bannocks from a separate campfire.
“Care to join me, George?” asked Douglas.
“Smells damned good, I’ll admit,” he said drawing his dagger to separate the slices completely through.
The two earls stood and ate while the squire held the piece of wood before them.
Douglas continued his direction between bites explaining, “Tell John, I want him to take men and the spy that Ramsey sent to the town yesterday and see what we can raid and reive from this vicinity.”
“I can do that,” he said ferreting out from his gums and teeth a part of the wood the bacon was sitting upon and spitting it onto the grass.
“I’ll take two hundred men, mostly archers, and set the tower afire,” continued Douglas.
“What about Hotspur?” asked George thoughtfully.
“We’ll know soon enough if and when Hotspur is on his way,” came back Douglas. “We have spies out from Pointeland to here. We’ll surely have a good enough warning about that.”
Having only two slices of the thick bacon left perched atop the piece of wood he waved the food away indicating he had had enough which delighted the two squires beyond words as they knew the earl wanted them to share in the meal. “Keep the dogs off it,” said Douglas as a parting bit of advice.
“Four bannocks left as well, Milord,” said David who was holding the warm bannocks in his bare hands.
“Ye two be back directly to fit my armor,” ordered Douglas without a smile.
They were beyond earshot but already knew their expected tasks.
“Good lads, they are,” chipped in George finishing off the last of his bannock wrapped bacon.
“Best there is,” exclaimed Douglas beaming with pride.
August 19 - Morning
HarbottleVillage
The rider skidded up hard to the outer gates of the walls surrounding the Umfraville mansion in Harbottle. He leapt fast from his mount and went straight to the porter beside the large iron gates.
“A message from Lord Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland to Lord Thomas Umfraville, Lord of Redesdale!” announced the young man loudly and with vigor.
The old porter looked up casually not sharing the youth’s enthusiasm and said, “Take your message, I will,” holding his open hand outward.
“Was expectin’ to give it to the lord himself,” said the lad sorely.
“I was expectin’ a hundred pound sterlin’ to appear in me pouch but it ain’t happened as yet,” said the man then wriggled his fingers to show his frustration.
Two large persuasive guards moved closer to the messenger.
The youth grimaced, opened his pouch and handed the folded and sealed parchment over to the porter.
From the hand of the porter, to the runner, to the steward, the message went until it was grandly placed on the morning table of the twenty-four year old member of the English Parliament and head of the famous influential family of Umfravilles that had thrived throughout the region since William the Conquer.
Lord Thomas was paring an apple and had a thick stack of various parchments spread in front of him for the morning’s scrutiny.
“From whom?” questioned Thomas keeping his eyes on the blade as he made the long strip of peel that disappeared between his opened legs as he sat.
“Northumberland, Milord,” replied the steward.
Thomas waved a finger to indicate he wanted the parchment passed to him.
The steward picked it from the table and handed it to Umfraville whose hand was some two feet away. He placed the apple on the table, impaled the knife sideling the stem then cracked the red wax that was sealing the message and read.
The steward started to leave.
“Wait!” commanded Thomas.
The steward froze in his tracks then turned back toward the table saying, “Milord?”
Keeping his attention on the message he continued, “Get the scribe. We need warrants. We’re going to war!”
“Yes, Milord,” said the steward politely. “Goin’ to war.”
“In Carlisle, apparently,” said the lord stoically. “By the end of the day we’re off to war.”
“Yes, Milord,” answered the steward.
“And have food prepare for five hundred comin’ from Warkworth this afternoon, too.” He snapped.
“Yes, Milord,” replied the steward once again. He then left and was happy for the opportunity to escape.
Thomas put the missive on the table and returned to the task of apple peeling. Soon he threw the single strip of peel onto the pile of documents and was well pleased with himself for achieving his victory. He then dramatically sliced off a side of the whitish flesh and took it between his teeth right from the blade imagining it as his grand reward.
August 19 - Noon
Carlisle
The sun seemed hot for the cool reception Archibald and William received as they trailed into the Scot’s camp at Carlisle. The stock of English dead that Archibald had laid on the grass at the gate of the castle two days thence was badly stinking.
Since the day before many of the wounded Scots being treated for their wounds were dying at a rapid rate which just added to the overall malaise of indecision yet experienced in the raid.
Archibald rode his horse to where Earl Robert was sitting at the base of an oak tree seemingly wallowing in despondency.
“Back, we are,” announced Archibald as his left foot alighted from the saddle.
“I can see yer back,” muttered Robert, “with a goodly plunder at that.”
Archibald glanced over his shoulder at the herd of animals he had gathered in the short period of time. “We did a’right, reckons me,” he said with an odd mixture of pride in his accomplishment and sadness for the degeneration of the camp under the command of Robert who had allowed his poor mood to migrate to the whole camp.
Archibald scanned the horizon to understand the state of their army. They have lost hope, he thought.
Across the way was the young man who earli
er planned on going home but he seemed to have changed for the worse. The herbwyfe was tending his wounds with crushed yarrow and keeping it covered with a fresh slather of mud and plaited heather found nearby. Archibald could tell at a distance the lad was short for the world.
The earl privately wondered the worth of a herd but he rationalized he was getting long in the tooth and that in itself naturally manifested those feelings of weakness as he imagined. He growled at his thoughts and tried to pass them by so he would not become a victim of such risky silliness.
“I see the English hain’t picked up their dead as yet,” grumped Archibald.
“Too feared,” replied Robert as he stood and leaned his bulk against the trunk of the tree.
“Of what?”
“That it’s a trap and we might kill more,” said Robert with a snarl of a smile on his face.
Archibald way encouraged to see the slight ray of hope coming from his peer. “Ye have a plan?”
“None,” came back Robert. “We’ve got no way over that wall and we’ve raided a good deal here’bouts.”
“We should have a pig killin’, I figure,” said Archibald cheerfully.
“Ye got pigs?” asked Robert, his interest peaked.
Archibald smiled broadly. “We’ll be a’eatin’ all but the squeal this eve, says me!”
Robert matched Archibald’s smile and nodded his approval.
“I want to send a message into the castle showin’ safe passage to collect their dead this day, too!” announced Archibald.
“Good notion that is… as well,” agreed Robert. His whole demeanor had changed within those few moments.
In the last glowing glimpses of the evening sky every Scot in the camp was full of pork and whisky. Many of the ones wounded and knowing they probably would not live out the night considered it a final meal on the earth and they were warmly comforted.
The English did pick up their dead outside the walls of the castle without incident and buried them in a mass grave near Carlisle Cathedral not far away.
Sir Ralph Neville planned no more surprise runs on the camped Scots and held tight to his prayerful notion that his messenger got through to Henry Percy in Northumberland to send him troops to drive the pagans from his gates.
Games of Otterburn 1388 Page 21
