The crash of Will’s collision with the perimeter of the standing group was appalling, shattering, almost like the effect of cannon-fire. No flesh and blood, human or equine, could stand it. Like ninepins the first and second ranks of the men around Percy went down, amidst a hell of flailing limbs, lashing hooves, splintered lances and spinning swords. The tip of Will’s own lance snapped off, but there could be no changing of posture now, so tight-pressed was the driving arrowhead. Still with the broken shaft preceding him, impelled not only by his own momentum but by the weight behind him, he thrust on, sword now swinging right and left in a rhythmic figure-of-eight sweep. For better vision he had not closed the visor of his war-helm, and he saw men rear up before him and fall away below or behind him, remaining scarcely aware of any contact with them. He was aware only of Percy, bareheaded and fair, before him, hemmed in by his supporters so that he could scarcely move, but sitting proudly in his saddle, far from cowering from the assault, coldly arrogant, reputedly a much truer heir of Hotspur than was his somewhat fatuous father.
It was not the Percy’s fault, nor Douglas’s either, that the two leaders did not in fact come to grips in the single combat which undoubtedly both of them would have sought. It was an old and grizzled English knight a little on the Percy’s left who, wise in war and long beyond chivalric posturing, altered the situation. Deliberately, as Will drove on in, he leaned over to his right, almost out of his saddle, and vehemently brought down his sword on the forward portion of the other’s broken lance — not the edge of the blade, to shear the wood, but the flat of it. In consequence, the lance end was driven violently downwards, and, tucked under Will’s right arm, its butt jerked as violently upwards, almost hoisting its owner off his horse’s back. Forward over the beast’s arching mane Will was thrown, only saving himself by grasping his sword-arm round the brute’s neck, as the lance fell from his grip. The impetus of the charge continued to carry him onwards of course, and his close supporters on either side more or less held him up, sweeping the veteran knight out of their way like stubble. But the immediate danger to Percy was past, with Will swept by only a few feet to his quarry’s right, in no position to do more than try to right himself in his saddle and cling to his sword. Indeed, Percy it was who lashed out with a sideways swipe as the Douglas drove by, but this was manfully parried by Will’s esquire at his right shoulder.
And now one of the disadvantages of the tight arrowhead charge was demonstrated. The propulsion and direction of its advance was not to be altered swiftly by any sudden decision. On it drove, right through the English ring and up the steep bank beyond. Even with this gradient and the riders savagely dragging back on their reins, a turn and resumed attack could only be achieved by swinging round in formation in a very wide arc, or by pulling up, reforming, and instituting a new charge — no swift proceeding, especially on a steep and broken hillside.
This last Will was seeking to do, nevertheless, when there was a new development. From uphill, behind them, approximately on the same line as he himself had just charged down, another company came thundering, yelling the Douglas slogan with fresh fervour. It was John, Lord Balveny, and the Master of Somerville, with their fire-raisers, arrived on the scene and eager for action. There were not above two score of them — but that was probably not apparent to the English, at first sight.
Percy may have been fearless and arrogant — but he was not a fool. Moreover, despite the havoc made of his knightly company, he had still many old campaigners round him. Whatever may have been his desires in the matter of coming to grips with the Douglas, he was left in no doubts as to his duty as commander of a temporarily scattered and leaderless host. Before Will could turn and reform, or Johnnie could descend upon him from above, he took the wise if unheroic course. Off down the bed of the stream, seawards, he and his companions spurred, splashing and stumbling, leaving the confused shambles of Redheugh Dean for a better, kinder place.
The day was the Scots’ — if only for the time being.
Will Douglas, breathless, half-winded by the kick of that lance-butt, shouted gaspingly to Cavers to follow Percy. Keep him in view. Try to head him off to the east. Keep him from rejoining the main body of the English, behind. Drive him in amongst the broken cliffs of the coast, if he could. And keep sending back word . . .
Then seventeen-year-old Johnnie and his party came crashing down, chagrined at having missed the fight. He would have been off after Percy also had his brother not restrained him.
“No, no,” Will cried thickly. “Not that. Leave it to Cavers. See — take all the men you can raise here. Up this road. To the east, here. The Coldinghame road. Quickly. Five hundred English of the advance-guard rode that way. Stout men. They would be out of the dean before we struck. They may know naught of what’s done. But if they turn back, if Percy reaches them, all could yet be lost. A strong body, and we are scattered. They must be kept away. If they turn back. You understand, Johnnie? A diversion. Lead them off. Seem to flee. Anything. Go now — and quickly.”
“And you? Where will you be?”
“I go to aid Beardie. At the rear.”
So back up and then down that littered switchback of a track Will and a few followers raced. As he went he gathered all the scattered groups and individuals of his force who yet strewed the twin deans or chased fleeing foes. Mounting the second long slope, there was still no sign of Crawford, or indeed of the mass of the enemy. This was where he had asked the savage giant to take charge, a task for a man who knew neither fear nor scruple, with a mere hundred or so men to face and hold back twenty times that number.
Dead and wounded men and horses dotted this western lip of the dean, but the noise of war only began to sound as the newcomers neared the crest. They were on top, where the trees and bushes thinned out to open rolling pastureland, before the clash, both in sound and sight, was revealed to them. It was an extraordinary scene — and even so it was at some distance, and receding. The entire spreading grassland slopes to the west were a mass of scattered, fleeing men, horses and cattle, that fanned out in ever widening disorder, a panic-stricken rout, like a vast flock of bolting sheep harried and savaged by a few determined and unrelenting wolves. Whatever it had been, it was not a fight now, nothing but a running, crazy slaughter with the best-mounted, the fleetest of foot and the least burdened, winning their lives, riding down their fellows, casting away women, booty, arms, anything that could hamper their flight.
Even though the sight represented totally unexpected and major victory, Will was shocked as he stared, shocked at the shameful sight of utter terror and abject panic — and at the snarling, merciless ferocity of men who killed and killed, mad apparently for blood. Even though this fleeing mob had represented the rear-guard, the commissariat, the drunken riff-raff and hangers-on which disfigures any invading army, burdened with gear and plunder — still this was shame.
He drew rein doubtfully. Clearly there was no need for him to go to Beardie’s aid. Moreover, this chase was itself a danger, since it was dispersing the hunters, like the hunted, over an ever-widening area, and taking them further out of control. And behind, to the east, there might well be need of every man and every sword still, if that advance-guard, disciplined and tough, turned back. After a few vexed moments, Will swung on his trumpeter.
“Sound me the recall, man,” he ordered. “Bring them back.”
High and loud the trumpet brayed, echoing amongst the hillsides. But without other result. No one turned back, no slackening showed in the pursuit of the slaughter.
Will frowned. He turned to his esquire. “Go to him. My word to the Earl of Crawford. To return to me. With all haste. And all his men. My men. Enough, say. There is work for us to do. My brother faces yon advance-guard, outnumbered three to one. Cavers trails Percy, outnumbered. Tell him. We have more to do than chase and slay fleeing men. Go!”
But Beardie Alex Lindsay was in his element, at last. He was a killer, and nothing was going to stop him until his thirst was slaked.
The esquire, in time, came back to the dean’s edge, alone.
Will bowed to the inevitable. He turned his party and rode back south by east now, uphill, above the deans, to gain a high spur as vantage-point. And climbing there, a courier from John came to him presently. Percy and his advance-guard had joined forces again. They were halted now in a strong position on the green turf-grown ramparts of some ancient Roman fort, on the high ground a mile or two ahead. The Lord Balveny and Cavers were keeping them in view, but the enemy were much too strong to attack. What now?
Again it was for Will to bow to the inevitable. There was no more to be done, meantime. His force scattered and tired, surprise no longer possible, and the foe still outnumbering him and with their toughest squadrons unblooded, the thing was not for debate. It had been a notable victory — but enough was enough. Douglas had longer-term aims than merely to fight it out here with Percy. He was still, after all, Lieutenant-General of the Realm.
“Tell my lord of Balveny and the Sheriff of Teviotdale to retire. To join me. We head south, round the head of Pease Dean. For the Eye Water passes. Tell them that. Leave the English, now. Percy will wait for news of his rear-guard. He will not follow.”
“Aye, my lord . . .”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THAT evening, Hugh, with twelve hundred men, caught up with his brother’s company, at Ayton. More were on the way. There had been no sign of Earl Beardie.
Reinforced, Will was all anxiety to finish what he had successfully begun. His scouts had been watching the high road over Coldinghame Moor all day. They sent back word that Percy, with the remnants of his force to the number of about eighteen hundred, was heading south along it, was in fact near Coldinghame itself, only five miles or so to the north-east, between them and the sea.
But though Will now had the strength to challenge the mauled English in full-scale battle, it was not to be. Not that night, at any rate. His men, who had ridden through two days and a night, were utterly weary — to say nothing of the horses. They must have a night’s rest. These newcomers, many of whom had been in the saddle for hours before ever they reached the assembly-point at Lincluden in Nithsdale, had been riding from there since dawn, and were in no state to fight a battle. Moreover, scouts from the south reported that another English force, under Sir John Harrington, was heading north from Berwick, fully one thousand strong.
So the Scots camped for the night outside the blackened walls of what had been the pleasant little town of Ayton, where the Eye took its great turn north to the sea — and where fifty years before, a solemn treaty of eternal peace had been concluded with the English, Archibald the Grim the principal Scots signatory.
The next morning dawned wet and chill, with a grey haar drifting in from the North Sea on an easterly wind. Despite the depressing conditions, there was no delay now in the Scots camp, with Will impatient for action. But just as they were preparing to move, sentinals brought the news that a large body of men was approaching across the Merse from the Chirnside direction, and flying the Douglas colours. They waited.
It proved to be Robert, Lord Fleming, with the first of the Galloway mobilisation — nearly two thousand men. They had ridden all night, spurred on by the Countess Margaret’s urgent commands. More would follow, under Jamie.
Will had now a host of thirty-seven hundred, despite Crawford’s continued failure to appear. He demanded of Rob whether he was ready to ride on? That faithful stalwart knew better than to suggest otherwise. They set off east by north, into the cold rain.
Alas, they were too late. Too late by hours, Will’s forward scouts told him, when they reached the sea at Eyemouth, to prospect the best place on the widening river-line to contest the enemy’s southwards movement. Douglas, it seemed, was not the only one who could ride by night. Percy no doubt had had his own scouts out. At any rate, the English had hurried on, through the hours of darkness, even eschewing the tempting opportunity to sack Coldinghame Priory, and leaving both that township and Eyemouth unburned, had crossed the river near Linthill, at first light, fully three hours earlier, and were now well on their way to Berwick — if not there already, for it was a bare ten miles. At least they would have joined up with Harrington’s force.
Will’s burst of anger was hot but brief. He blamed himself, and the human weakness of men who needed sleep. He cursed that Hugh and Fleming, with their reinforcements, could not have reached him a few hours earlier. He raged at his scouts, for not having come and routed him out of his blanket, at Ayton. Then it was all over, and he was himself again, turning his whole host southwards once more, without delay. Percy was still far from home.
It was not so simple as that, of course, Berwick-on-Tweed lay in the way, a great Scottish fortified town that had been held by the English for many years, one of the strongest citadels in the two kingdoms. The Earl of Northumberland was at Berwick meantime, they said — and Percy would go to his father there. Will had no more hope of attacking and reducing Berwick than of flying in the air, even if he led ten times the numbers that he did. But that was not to say that he could do nothing further against the invaders. He could slip around Berwick, cross Tweed to the west, and then, either attack the Percys on their way south or, if they remained in Berwick, dose the English with some of their own medicine by raiding deep into Northumberland. He believed that was the sort of lesson that they would respect.
They were near Lamberton, half-way to Berwick, when Jamie Douglas arrived from the west, over Mordington Hill, with another fifteen hundred men. And that was not all; Sir Harry, the chamberlain, their brother-in-law, should be leaving Galloway now with the second and main contingent from that province. He had told Jamie that he would be disappointed if he did not bring three thousand. And there were still the men from Douglasdale and Ettrick to come, not to mention what Hay the Constable could raise further north still. Heartened, with five thousand men at his back now instead of five hundred, Will pressed on, although inevitably more slowly. They met with no opposition, Harrington evidently having turned back, with Percy. But no doubt scouts watched their every move.
And then, as they neared the Tweed at Paxton, there was further word from the west — no large body of fighting men this, but two exhausted couriers on foundered sweat-streaked horses. They came from Margaret, who had herself taken over Jamie’s position at Lincluden as base commander — only, she was no longer at Lincluden, having been forced to retire westwards to Threave Castle. The English had mounted a further invasion, of the West March, under the Earl of Salisbury, their Warden. Lower Annandale and all the plain of the Solway was theirs, and they had sacked and burned the town of Dumfries. The Countess was holding back all further reinforcements for her husband meantime, and had sent messengers after Sir Harry and his force, six hours gone on the road eastwards. The new invaders’ numbers were reckoned at between four and six thousand.
Will was forced to an agonising decision. If he turned back to the relief of the West, he left the already mauled East open to still more savage reprisals of the Percys, smarting under their minor defeat at Redheugh. Moreover, he threw away the advantages of his little victory, and the opportunity to strike a retaliatory blow into Northumberland. On the other hand, he was Warden of the West March, and that was Douglas’s own country. He compromised. He ordered Hugh to take two thousand of their force and hasten back to the Solway, picking up the second Galloway contingent on the way. This would give him approximately five thousand — and Margaret might have more awaiting him. Will sent Sir John Wallace, Elisabeth’s husband, with him, and the Master of Somerville. None were experienced campaigners — but then, neither were any of them, himself included.
So the host split up again, there on the north bank of Tweed. Hugh, Earl of Ormond and his company hastened off up-river, westwards, and Will led his reduced array of about three thousand splashing across the shallows of the first ford above the estuary, and into England.
The great square pile of Norham Castle guarded that ford — but wisely, in view o
f the Scots numbers, the keeper thereof did not attempt to contest the crossing. In his turn, Will made no assault on the castle; it was not to squander time on sieges that he had turned invader.
Leaving a screen of scouts behind him, to keep him informed of any movements from Berwick, he drove down fast and far into the somewhat bare Northumbrian country, keeping his force compact and allowing no tentative raiding and slaying en route, despite the resentment of his vengeance-hungry followers. Over twenty miles into England, they halted for the night in the valley of the Breamish, near Berwick, taking only sufficient local cattle and supplies to feed them. Well aware of the murmurous discontent of his men, Will ordered strict confinement to camp and a good night’s rest for all — no sallies.
Himself, he was late in seeking his blanket, conferring with those of his commanders and veteran mosstroopers who knew anything of this countryside. And he was up before dawn collating the reports of his scouts, arrived throughout the night. When the camp awakened to the sunrise, he was able to address them in terms more to the popular taste.
“My friends,” he shouted from an eminence, to men munching a breakfast of cold meat and slaked oatmeal, “ye have been patient. It had to be. I had to wait. Now I know that, up till darkening last night, none of the English had left Berwick, in any numbers, for the south. That word I had to have. Too many Scots raids into this country have ended in disaster because they were cut off from home. Too many of my ancestors have died or been taken prisoner within short miles of this place. But, for today, our rear is secure. We can do what we have come to do.”
Black Douglas (Coronet Books) Page 29
