“You scared, brother?!” spat Hotspur.
“You know me better!” growled back Ralph.
“Then get set to ride some more!”
Ralph breathed deep trying to explain to his revenge driven brother that his army and their mounts were not about to last the remainder of the trip and still be able to fight.
Matthew Redman and Robert Ogle splashed to the north side of the river. Redman spoke, “We campin’ here for the night?”
“Who in hell said that?!” yelped Hotspur.
“Just figured,” snapped back Redman, his words tinged with anger. He darted his eyes to Robert for a possible explanation for Hotspur’s ire.
Ogle jumped his shoulder a bit to indicate he had no idea.
Those men and horses that drank first came across the water and stopped on the far side. The men stretched out on the grass.
“None of you will thwart my mind!” said Hotspur jerking his horse’s head from the water, turning and trotting onward toward Otterburn.
“Does he not understand the condition of his army,” said Redman frowning.
“We’re straggled back for at least a couple of miles. Maybe more,” added Ogle removing his helm and mopping his brow with his inner sleeve where his mail armor was not.
“Lord Henry leads this army!” growled Ralph to the two nobles.
He then turned to Hotspur’s one squire still there and commanded him, “Unfurl that banner of your liege lord’s and follow him no matter where he goes!”
The surprised squire took the banner from its saddle loops, twisted its staff until the gold banner and blue lion caught the bit of wind.
Ralph wheeled his destrier and digging his spurs deep into the horse’s ribs it kicked dirt to a gallop.
The three squires followed the fourth letting the banner of his liege lord whip in the wind created by the galloping horse.
“Those two are going to get us all killed,” opined Sir Matthew as he watched the brothers ride ahead.
“Well, until we are all dead, I figure we do press on!” grumbled Ogle. He kicked his mount to continue their journey.
Redman whistled and the men-at-arms and archers knew to get to their feet, mount up and trail after him.
Hotspur leaned over toward Ralph and said, “I have seen battles begin and end within a short span of time and I am determined to strike hard and fast and make that Douglas yield for what he put us through.”
“I am with you, my brother.”
August 19 - Afternoon
North of Blakeman’s Law
John Dunbar and his small band of men searching the surrounding area for reiveable stock came up on a particular ridge for the area overlooking the long valley below.
“Ye can see right far from here,” said John riding up to his best spotter.
“Right far and a mighty lot,” said the man pointing across the valley floor. “Yon’s the third bunch of armed riders headin’ east that I’ve seen.”
“Harbottle?” questioned John knowing the area across the vally.
“My best guess, Milord,” replied the knight glancing at the small village of Harbottle. “Maybe beyond?”
“Thomas Umfraville!” said John aloud.
“Milord?”
“These men are settin’ out to come against us from the north while Hotspur will be comin’ against us from Newcastle,” exclaimed John.
“Reckon that changes our objectives… for now, Milord?” questioned the spotter.
“Only a wee bit,” came back John. “We a’ready got some twenty beeves and two mules.”
The spotter got another glint off metal from the afternoon sun. “Yon’s another bunch,” he said again pointing.
John turned in his saddle to see the five riders trotting across the farmer’s field going in the same direction as those previously observed. “I want ye to stay here and keep yer eyes peeled.”
“Aye, Milord,” said the man.
“I’m leavin’ two men with ye to send back as messengers,” explained John.
“What are we to report, Milord?” asked the spotter.
“When they’re comin’ our way… or wherever in a large contingent,” said John.
“Won’t be this night, Milord,” adjudged the man shifting in his saddle and shading his eyes by cupping his hands on both sides of his face and setting his fingers at his eyebrows.
“I figure it won’t be ‘til in the mornin’,” said John. “Probably dawn.”
“Mighty tricky!” exclaimed the spotter. “Mighty tricky, Milord.” His horse bowed his head and raised it up again while rippling his muscles seemingly to agree with his rider. It could have also been biting the flies bothering him.
John picked his two men as messengers not only for their riding ability but for the abilities of the horses they rode. He then took his squire and rode ahead to the camp to let James Douglas know what was happening in the north while the remainder of his men walked the reived plunder toward the camp two or so miles away.
August 19 - Afternoon
Blakeman’s Law
It was a relatively hot afternoon on Blakeman’s Law. James Douglas and his men were thankful for the mitigating cool breezes coming overland from the western seas.
Douglas peeled his chain mail coif from his head and shoulders then he had his two squires David and Simon unfasten the thin strap belts on his leg armor while he loosed the ribbon ties on his surcoat and pulled it over his head. The squires then went to work on the chest armor that was riveted on both sides under the arms. The plate on his arms was next, both upper and lower. He soon stood among the sundry pieces of metal scattered at his still booted feet with his battle trews and his sweat soaked and stinking shirt he had worn since his swim in the Tyne River. He cast off the shirt and threw it aside then donned a fresh washed white linen shirt that did not immediately stick to his bare body. He held his arms out from his shoulders to catch the cooling affects.
“Yer boots, Milord?” asked David pointing to Douglas’ feet.
Douglas was at first reluctant but soon changed his mind and sat on the grass offering his booted foot between the lad’s legs so it could be extracted.
With his bare foot flat on the cooling grass he offered the second foot to the squire.
“Yer lord likes his bare feet,” said Adara as she peered uphill to the Douglas tent.
“And ye want his boots,” added Mungan almost perceptibly sarcastic.
“Feet get hot and feet get cold,” she quipped, “but if ye got ‘em ye can take ‘em off or put ‘em on as ye see fit to do.”
The bare chested Mungan had no gainsay for that and so kept his mouth shut.
She cuddled her body on the grass under the lean-to shelter and closed her eyes hoping for a lazy drowse.
Mungan did not like the morning’s attack on the tower house as he had nothing more to do than stand with his spear and watch the archers bickering arrows back and forth coming to naught in the end. He liked fighting but that was wasting time and making him temporarily lack witted with no good purpose served.
It was along about that time that lord John Dunbar came riding his horse to James Douglas. Mungan could tell the horse had been ridden hard as John slipped from the saddle but he could not tell anything of the conversation for they talked in low tones saying, “They all appeared to be headed to Harbottle.”
“And ye left spies in a good place?” asked Douglas squinting at the brightness of the low sun as he looked up at the standing man. John relieved Douglas’ eyes by standing where it cast a shadow over the man’s face.
“We’ll know quick enough if they head for here,” replied John confidently.
“Only other place for them to head for is Carlisle,” said Douglas. “Too late in the day for dispatchin’ a messenger to Robert on that feeble possibility. Must be thirty-five or forty miles across over to there… That’s a l-o-n-g day of ridin’… We’ll see to sendin’ somebody at first light.”
“Any of our spies along the trail to Newcast
le come in?” asked John.
Douglas shook his head. “Only one I saw brought the message from Northumberland to Hotspur that we intercepted.”
“Ye showed me that one,” replied John as he sat on the ground beside Douglas. “I feel like we’re blind here,” admitted John.
“We are blind by just sittin’ here dependin’ on our spies, I reckon,” declared Douglas.
“I want to put a spy on top of that hill yon,” said John pointing to Fawdon Hill. “That blocks our view of the road from Newcastle but ye can see a little way down that road from the top of that hill.
“Good notion,” agreed Douglas, “See to it.”
John nodded indicating he would.
Along the barrier and down the hill Sir John Swinton rode his horse minding the deportment of the men and the integrity of the defenses. He remained in charge of the plunder and had made himself comfortable bivouacking at the servant’s camp, so called for they were the ones that tended not only the plundered animals but the knight’s destriers and the regular horses of the men-at-arms and archers as well. The animals were all fenced near the roadway and within the loop of the river.
He dismounted near his tent and his squire, James, immediately appeared as if by magic.
“Doffin’ yer armor, Milord?” he asked ready to help with the task.
“Keepin’ it on,” said Swinton. “Might yet be trouble.”
“Take the saddle off yer stallion, Milord?”
“Just the saddle,” replied the knight. “Leave the rest of the tack just as it is.”
“Aye, Milord,” answered James as he began to work on the loop-buckle of the belly strap.
“We goin’ back to Scotland tomorrow?” asked James as he dragged the saddle from the back of the horse and laid it on the ground.
“Hain’t had a war council meet on that as yet,” said Swinton. “What’s for victuals?”
“Beef we have… from what was butchered yesterday,” replied the squire.
“Put it on the fire,” ordered Swinton as he sat in a shaded spot on the hill side of the road where most of the tents and other types of quickly-made shelters had been pitched.
He smelled the hot food from the camp followers cook pots. They had come in with Alexander Ramsey’s contingent. That food was mainly made for the servants and lads tending the mixed herd. He hoped his beef would taste half as good as the other smelled.
The more he sat the hotter he became and the hotter he became the more he grew to like his squire’s offering so that he called James over to him and had his armor removed and laid in his tent in proper order in case he had to reharness quickly.
“Yer meat will be ready soon, Milord,” said Squire James.
“Keep yer sword close at hand,” advised Swinton as he buckled his own sword and dagger belts around his surcoat that displayed his arms of identity. He felt as if he weighed much lighter.
The midge population was getting worse. Swinton figured the hoofed animals in the marshland of the loop were stirring up the biting bugs. He swatted and batted the midge-filled air but to no gain. No evidence showed on the palms of his hands as to a single kill.
Bug bites were no different with any of the other camp inhabitants who were made up of men servants accustomed to the tending of livestock and many lads from about eight years and older. Most of them carried bladed tools and weapons of various sorts to handle their day to day tasks but they had no defense against those tiniest of pests.
Higher on the crest of Blakeman’s Law in front of a large shelter configured by the captives stood the stoic figure of Sir Aymer de Athol, the Lord of Pointeland who had given himself over to the forces of Douglas to save his villeins and castle inmates. He was resigned to the fact that he was a prisoner of the Scots and knew he was taken for reasons of an expected hefty ransom. The scheme was far from new to him as he had ransomed prisoners he had captured in past battles and before he himself had been made to pay. He did not like it so much but he knew he would be well treated and protected just the same as the other captives sharing that part of the hillside with him all of whom had sworn to not escape nor give into any rescue. With that assurance the captives were not bound and had some limited liberties about the camp.
Sir Aymer had covered his head with an under shirt so that the hot sun would not bake his lightly tinted skin. He had no weapons and was allowed to wear his surcoat and a belt of personal belongings such as a pouch of herbs and a water skin.
“Sir Aymer,” addressed Earl George as he approached from downhill.
“Milord,” answered Athol noticing the sweat heavily beaded on the part of man’s face showing within the opening of the chain mail coif. “You appear to be ripe for dying of the heat, sir” he said politely.
Being reminded he was hot made him all the hotter and he then and there removed his helm and coif. He slung his locks and beard of the dripping residue and Aymer was glad for not standing all that close. “Ye’re right Sir Aymer… feel better, I do.”
“Drink more water,” advised the older man
George smiled already knowing he needed to do so. “Ye bein’ fed enough?”
“A’plenty, Milord,” replied Aymer, “As are the rest of us here.”
George nodded. “If ye have a need for anything let me know.”
“Thank you, Milord,” said Aymer gracefully.
Carrying his helm and chain coif in his hand, George walked over to Douglas’ tent that was set up fairly close to his.
Douglas’ lay on his side in the grass nodding off.
“What’s our plan?” asked George bluntly and loud enough to awaken his battle commander.
Douglas winked his eyes awake and saw it was George. He sat up, shook his head and yawned.
“What’s our plan?” George repeated.
“I heard ye the first time,” griped Douglas, “I’m for stayin’ here’bouts ‘til Hotspur comes to get his pennon.”
“And I’m for gettin’ back to Scotland where it’s not so near hell,” said George shaking the sweat from his head again. That time to reinforce his say.
“But if we can capture Hotspur it would pay a great ransom, George,” explained Douglas.
George paused to take a long look into James’ eyes to find his rational meaning then said in somber words, “This is a game to ye!?”
Douglas grunted. He was not in the mood for such a conversation at that moment but thought he owed it to George to tell him what he thought saying, “‘Tis a game, I agree. A very dangerous game ‘tis yet a game ne’ertheless. Ye and I have been taught the rules and set adrift to manage the affairs of the game as we see fit for our particular station. The wee folk die and the high folk get ransomed. It’s the nature of war.”
“Well, I’ll be goddamned!” snorted George. “What a jaded way of lookin’ at war!”
“That’s why ye’ve got to play the game side,” pleaded Douglas. “The war side is the part that’s truly jaded.”
“And what about the freedom from tyranny?” argued George. “Kings and such takin’ o’er what they want for no good reason at all?!”
“We deliberately started this raid to free ourselves of English tyranny over Scotland and our acts were acts of war… but… played out in a chivalric game, a tourney so to speak,” answered Douglas then added for complete clarity, “It is the way we maintain our blooded army… for the real wars… when they come.”
George took a long breath because he did not fully understand and then was urged by his diverse thoughts to say, “I will fight to my death for ye, my friend, as will every pledged man on this hillside but I will ne’er think of battle… as a game!”
Douglas had no different argument for his philosophical viewpoint and so shrugged his shoulders sincerely saying, “I am thankful for yer friendship, George.”
Without another word Dunbar turned and left. Within a half dozen steps his mind was thinking of more mundane issues such as the array of his fighting men and his responsibility for their lives i
f and when the English showed up at Otterburn and if they were still camped there when they did.
Over the crest of Blakeman’s Law some thirty-five head of cattle and horses that were driven by John’s following troops took a route around the far side of the camp along the edge of the copse to keep the herd from trampling the tents, shelters and sleeping folk. When they got to the road at the bottom of the rise several young men minding the main herd slid a couple of rails out of the uprights to allow them entrance to the common pinfold of the loop.
Once delivered the riders went straightway to find Earl John for further orders.
“The day is gone,” said John casually. “Get ye a supper.”
“Hotspur hain’t a’comin’ today?” asked one.
“Mighty late for a day’s battle,” suggested John looking most unlike a knight ready for war.
They had no reason to think otherwise so they followed the advice of their liege lord and sent two from among them to go to the edge of the marshland and draw a ration of meat for their immediate group. Another two men borrowed fire from a nearby camp and got their cook-fire kindled while another mixed a batter for bannocks in a leather pouch waiting for the flat rock to get hot enough to pour on the thick liquid oats.
John Dunbar’s man from the north side rode in rather fast and was quick to ferret out his liege lord who was talking to a group of knights among them were Sir David Lindsay, Lord of Glenesk and Sir John de Montgomery of Eglesham.
“The English are plenty busy in that north valley, Milord,” said the man swinging down from his saddle.
“‘Ppear to be headed this way?” asked John.
“Not as of when I left, Milord,” he replied. “No tellin’ what that Umfraville might take the notion to do but they seem to be bivouacked in the valley.”
“I know,” said John, “That family has owned lands in these parts from long years past.”
“It helps to be cousins to the king,” put in Montgomery indicating the Umfraville family ties to the royal house.
That conjured laughs around the knot.
“Get a supper and hie back to yer lookout spot and keep an eye on those bastards,” ordered John.
Games of Otterburn 1388 Page 23
