Games of Otterburn 1388

by Charles Randolph Bruce

  His eyes dashed from the line of Scots to the massacre before him and back again. His ears were assaulted by the horn blasts. He looked across to his own knights and visualized them as dead men riding. He looked behind him to see more dead men.

  He suddenly clapped his gauntleted hands over his ears and squeezed his eyes tight shut but his brain shattered his heart and he screamed to the top of his lungs as the tortured soul that he, within a single moment, became.

  The bishop abruptly opened his eyes wide and his mouth quivered his orders only loud enough for Sir Thomas Boynton to hear the one word, “Withdraw!”

  Boynton nodded he had heard and took the reins to the bishop’s horse and tugged it around shouting loudly, “Withdraw!!”

  There were few of the bishop’s men who grumbled as most were reluctant to add their blood to what was clearly a Scottish victory. They had the field and the momentum. They lacked superior numbers but seemed to have overcome that handicap with courage, endurance, strategy and a great deal of just being of determined Scottish blood.

  As the bishop’s army of something far less than three thousand turned to leave.

  The horns became louder and their collective sound was gradually replaced by equally deafening victorious hoots of joy.

  August 20 - Early Afternoon

  Blakeman’s Law

  All of the Scots were bone tired and took advantage of either a lull in the battle or the end of it. Sir John Maxwell and his crew continued the search of mangled bodies to separate the Scots from the English and find Sir James Douglas. There were others who were gathering armor, weapons and any other detritus that may prove to be of value to the Scots as they moved forward.

  It was one of those gathers who had his arms wrapped around various pieces of clothing and weapons that Maxwell recognized the distinctive sword hilt of James Douglas.

  “Where did ye get this sword?” asked Maxwell pulling the long stout weapon from the midst of the bundle.

  “Yon,” answered the man tossing his head toward his right shoulder.

  John handled the sword as if it were already a sacred relic. “Show me exactly where, laddie,” he ordered calmly.

  “Aye, Milord,” said the young man as he dropped his bundle onto the bloody ground and turned to find the spot where he had picked up the sword with little thought as to its meaning.

  The pair stepped carefully through the carnage with already blood soaked boots, the searcher lead while Maxwell anxiously followed while he cradled the Douglas sword in the crook of his arm and held the hilt in his hand.

  Close to the far side of the battlefield they came to a place where the searcher pointed to the ground and said, “Here, Milord. Here’s where I found the sword.”

  Maxwell looked and saw simply a mash of bone, blood and sinew lying together until his eyes fell upon the crumpled face of Earl James Douglas.

  It was true. The commander of the East March Scottish army was dead.

  “Go tell Earl George that we have found the body of Earl James,” instructed John. “and stand by to bring him to this place if he so chooses.”

  “Aye, Milord,” said the searcher bowing a bit before he traversed the corpse field. He then ran up the hill toward the earl’s camp.

  “Sad, sad,” remarked Maxwell as he stared at Douglas’ body. Then he noticed the dead bodies of Douglas’ two squires who were obviously at his heels when they all three were struck down by English steel. Maxwell wondered how it was possible for one man and his squires to get so deep into the English side of the mêlée but he also realized that Douglas did not have on his surcoat or any markings to indicate he would have been a valuable ransom if taken alive which made his travel that deep into the English mass even more remarkable.

  Soon enough Earl George arrived at the tail of the man who had found Douglas’ sword. He was followed by three large men-at-arms and one of them was carrying a quilt that George had seen neatly folded in Douglas’ tent a time or two.

  Two men spread the quilt over several bodies crumpled together beside Douglas and the three began to understand how best to reverently extract poor James from his death ground.

  “Yon’s his two squires, Milord,” said Maxwell pointing.

  More of the Scots knights gathered on the perimeter of the battlefield to watch.

  George bent to see for himself the two squires, then stood. “Some of ye get another two litters ready for a couple of very brave squires.”

  Enough men left for the hill to find suitable material to make the litters.

  The three men working within the gore to extricate James finally got their hands under the earl and lifted him to the quilt.

  George easily laid the ends of the quilt over his friend’s mangled corpse before the three soldiers hoisted the man aboard their shoulders and carried him up the hill.

  By that time the news of the find was all about and many gathered for a glimpse of the great hero of Scotland as he was laid before his tent.

  Hotspur watched the proceeding from a hunkered position within the designated circle of prisoners. His emotions were understandably blunted. His pennon was no closer in hand than it ever had been since Douglas took it from him at Newcastle.

  Beside him was his brother Ralph who writhed with pain as his fever drove him to spells of faint. Cold water fetched from the river below helped to cool him some. Hotspur knew he was going to have to trade his good deportment for Ralph’s return to Newcastle where there were modern physicians beyond the near pagan knowledge of the Scottish herbwyfe then treating Ralph. Or so he thought.

  George soon arrived and knelt to say a private prayer over his friend. He sighed deeply and placed his hand over the stilled heart saying in quiet words, “Exciting and dangerous games they were, my brave comrade… I now fear you were right.”

  August 21 - Morning

  Carlisle

  The sun had been up for several hours as John the scout had traversed to higher elevations of the mountain range to keep out of sight of the archers covering the moving army of Lord Thomas Umfraville as he marched against the Scots laying siege on Castle Carlisle.

  He traveled as much as he could in the day and some by the light of the full moon but became fearful he would lose his bearings as he could not recognize his visually known trail marks in the dark despite the brightness of the moon. Since he had gone two days without sleep he involuntarily slept as he could.

  John stopped by a small spring to water his horse and fill his skin. He looked out over the valley before him. Knowing they were ever present, he searched for Umfraville’s archers at the lower elevations.

  Then he saw Carlisle some twelve or more miles in front of him.

  He knew it was too far for a galloping run. There was little cover between his position and the valley town. “What to do?” questioned John to his horse who had no answer but seemed willing enough to pledge his four legs to the life or death gambit.

  John decided to go south to get behind the hill he was on so he could drop to the valley floor without fear of getting caught by the English longbowmen on rough terrain. It was a longer and more time consuming trek but he dare not chance not getting to Carlisle at all.

  Soon John was on relatively flat land without any archers in sight. He trotted along as if he was an ordinary citizen. It worked for about six or seven miles until he saw two riders running fast in his direction. He knew they were on to his subterfuge and patted his horse on the neck just as he kicked him to a full gallop. The round light-weight targe he usually carried on his saddlebow he slung over his arm and maneuvered it to cover his back.

  He rode fast and hard. He looked back hoping the archers’ horses were getting winded. Unfortunately they were keeping up.

  He leaned close to his horse hoping to go faster.

  Without warning he felt the thud of an arrow go into his targe and stick into his back. He winced and rose up high in the saddle as another two arrows whizzed near his head.

  He again glanced back as h
e wriggled the targe from his back the arrow point tore at his flesh as it came out. The wound hurt badly but his good news was the two English archers had exhausted their horses.

  He slowed to a trot as he broke the arrow out of the leather and wood shield and returned it to his back hoping no more archers would appear in the last leg of his desperate journey.

  He looked back and the archers were running with the reins of their horses in their hands.

  John knew it would be only a matter of time before they would be back aboard their mounts and traveling as fast as he was.

  He pushed his gait to a cantor and managed to spread the distance between them. John thought Umfraville’s army has to be at least a half day’s ride back.

  Soon John could see bits of the tops of the cathedral and the donjon of the castle as he hit the higher points of the gentle slopes. He looked back again to see the men following had split up and it was the one on horseback who was closing fast while the other easily loped his horse along. John knew they had found a waterhole somewhere. He was forced to speed up as the man chasing was getting into arrow range for a longbow.

  He glanced back again. The archer had dismounted and was drawing back the string of his bow and arching it upward. John knew the range of the longbow and beat his faithful horse to as fast as he could make legs go. He suddenly broke left and the arrow whizzed by on his right.

  The archer’s horse was on the ground as the second archer trotted past still in pursuit.

  John could hear the second man coming closer.

  John’s horse was near exhaustion and he knew he had at least another mile to go. His horse could not make another mile at a full gallop but he had to try so he kicked him harder and the horse went at full gallop.

  The archer got from his horse and drew his bow back as far as he could just as John’s horse hit a rough bit of ground and stumbled. John jumped off as the horse hit the ground.

  John stood pulling his targe in front of him as his only protection against the arrows.

  The horse was breathing hard and his fearful eyes were rolling to see anything there was to see.

  The missile was launched.

  John knew it was coming and walked ten feet off its course.

  The archer had another barb loaded and drew back.

  The first barb struck John’s horse in the rump. It writhed and tried to get up but could not do more than flail three of its legs and scream to the heavens.

  John thought to run but he did not want to leave James’ horse behind. He drew his sword and shook it at his enemy in defiance of his uncontrollable fate.

  Suddenly the close archer got back aboard his horse.

  John turned to see two other outriders coming toward him from behind. With his targe and sword he stood his ground and was sad his venture to save the lives of so many at Carlisle was at an end.

  As the oncoming riders got closer he could see that all was not lost as they were picket Scots.

  John’s attention was drawn to his suffering horse as the men rode up.

  “Who are ye?” asked one of the riders.

  “Name’s John,” he said affectingly rubbing the ears of his horse. “From Earl James Douglas’ army fightin’ in the East March and ye’re fixed to be set upon by the English.”

  With that last word he pushed his sharp dagger into the horse’s neck that began to bleed heavily.

  “Good bye, my friend,” said John reverently. “Ye’ve saved a mighty host of Scotland’s heroes this day.”

  After a moment the horse breathed its last and John stood saying, “Take me to Earl Archibald Douglas or Earl Robert Stewart.”

  August 21 - Late Morning

  Blakeman’s Law

  The detritus of the Scottish camp on the slope was gathered in a heap in the middle of the area and set afire. The smoke wistfully made its way skyward seemingly as lonely as those who had lost friends and kin in the battle.

  The bloody and mangled banner of Earl James Douglas wrapped his equally shattered corpse as it lay on a specially prepared litter in front of his tent. Hotspur’s pennon still tossed with the breeze above his covered head.

  Hotspur had begged Earl George to send his brother to Newcastle with the pledge that if he lived the ransom would be paid by their father to be sure.

  Several farmers’ wains and their teams of draft horses were commandeered and brought to the camp to carry Sir James and the knights who had lost their lives in the battle back to Scotland, escorted by some of Douglas’ close knights. They were to go by the way of Dere Street, an old Roman road that was more suitable for the wheels of wains that the rough terrain over the Redeswire the Scots had traversed as they had gone south in a grand hurry only eleven days earlier.

  The great many English that had been held as prisoners presented its own cadre of problems. An equal amount of men-at-arms had been traded for the Scots mostly taken in the skirmishes as they chased the retreating English down the Newcastle road.

  The English took care of their dead by hauling them to the church of St Cuthbert at Elsdon and buried them in a mass grave under the north wall there.

  Mungan had just come back from his burial party along the edge of the wood where the dead Scots were placed in a common grave. Even though he was wounded, Douglas’ Chaplin was going to be performing a service over them before the major part of the army pulled out going back across the way they had come toward Scotland.

  “Sad day,” opined Adara when she saw the despair on Mungan’s face.

  “Saddest I’ve seen for a while, for true it is,” he replied shaking his head… then from behind his back he held a pair of boots outward toward her. “Good Scottish leather and goodly made, they are.”

  Adara was confused on her emotions. She felt like squealing for joy on the one hand and on the other she knew they had been pulled from the feet of a brave fighter no longer needing them. She sucked her breath inward and squeezed her eyes tight as she stifled a tearful whimper.

  “Looked to be about the size of yer feet,” said Mungan smiling.

  She took the boots reverently and pressed them to her breasts. She could not hold back any longer as reality of what had happened on that very ground sank in. She burst into tears and involuntarily crumpled to her knees.

  She wept bitterly.

  Mungan was puzzled. He thought she was going to be pleased. He was silent as he stood over her and anxiously rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet hoping that whatever he had done was going to have temporary consequences.

  August 21 - About Noon

  Carlisle

  “Here’s yer Earl Douglas!” said one of the two outriding pickets who had saved John’s life.

  “I thank ye, my friends,” said John as he slid from the rump of the picket’s horse and once on the ground, doffed his hat bowing low in appreciation for their timely saving of his life.

  Archibald looked up to see the man and realized he had seen him before around Southdean Church. “Ye went with Douglas?” questioned the earl as he got back to stirring in the fire to make it hotter.

  “Aye, Milord,” said John coming from his saddle, “Scout for that side, I am, Milord.”

  “What ye a’doin’ here’bouts?” asked Archibald.

  Robert Stewart walked up to see what was going on.

  “Earl George Dunbar said to give ye a message,” replied John.

  “Message? What message?!” said Robert in a quick spit of words.

  John’s head turned as quick as Robert’s words.

  Archibald looked up at Robert wondering what he had going on in his head. “Let him speak,” he growled then turned to John and asked, “Fire cooked pork?”

  “Hain’t et much but a turnip for three days… thank ye to have some, Milord,” answered John politely.

  “Yer message, lad!” grumped Robert.

  “Aye,” said John then paused to get his speech worked around in his head.

  From under his brows, Robert gave the young man a restle
ss stare.

  Archibald skewered a portion of pork and set across the fire held by end stanchions. The fire crackled as it licked the fat of the fresh meat.

  “We’ve been in a terrible fight close to Otterburn, Milords,” started John.

  Robert’s anxiety fell. “Ye come this far to say that?”

  “Nay,” said John as he got his first whiff of the cooking meat. “I come to tell ye that Lord Thomas of…” he paused to think of the name, “Umfraville’s on his way here to make ye’uns skedaddle… Milords,” he blurted.

  “When?” asked Robert back to being anxious.

  “Any time, reckons me,” spoke John then added, “How long’s it take for pork to cook, Milord.”

  Archibald smiled. “Yon’s a piece ready cooked on the ground if ye want to get started, lad.”

  “How many?” again questioned Robert.

  John paused midway to the meat. He stood erect and looked at Robert. He tugged at his earlobe and twisted his fingers over it to scratch the imagined itch.

  “How many?” repeated Robert.

  “A lot…?” replied John not knowing his counting.

  “More than’s here?” asked Robert becoming agitated.

  John looked around the field. He had never seen Umfraville’s army, just campfires. He figured several to a campfire and so said according to what he imagined rather than what he knew for fact, “More, Milord.”

  “We can throw a barricade up on the edge of the copse,” said Robert.

  “Figurin’ to fight, are ye?” asked Archibald standing from his fire.

  “Figurin’ to, why?” replied Robert curtly.

  “I figure we need to leave with what we got,” said Archibald, “and that’s just what I’m a’goin’ to do.”

  “Well, hell, I hain’t a’gonna be able to go it alone,” groused Robert disappointedly.