by Nigel Green
I crossed to the east side of the hill and peered into the valley where yesterday afternoon Dick Middleton had led his force south to the cheers of the archers. They made a fine sight, spears aloft, the afternoon sunlight glinting on their breastplates and the silver embroidery of their saddlecloths. Dick argued when I suggested such a spectacle, thinking it would make his men too conspicuous, but had backed down when his troops had taken to their ostentatious saddle wear with enthusiasm.
I wondered where he was now. If he had broken through, he must be halfway to the border with the Scots in hot pursuit. If he had not, the Scots would be back here in a day or so.
Unlike the exhausted archers who sprawled everywhere on the hilltop, I was unable to sleep. I had forbidden the making of fires, so as not to reveal our position, but the moon was almost full and gave sufficient light as I walked round the small camp. To my surprise, I found Fennell on the southern side, his burly frame hunched as he peered down to the entrance of the valley.
He pointed into the darkness.
‘Can you see it, my lord?’
I looked out uneasily.
‘No, what is it?’
He rubbed his eyes.
‘It’s a long way off, my lord, but I think it’s a fire or fires.’
I went cold. If Middleton had broken through, he should be near to the border now and the Scots would be with him. There should be no one close to our camp now. Either the Scots had abandoned the pursuit or they had defeated Middleton, but there was no reason why the Scots would have called off the chase – they outnumbered the Carlisle horse, knew the country and the quickest routes, and it was clear Dick and his men were fleeing for their lives.
‘How far away would you say that fire is?’ I asked.
‘Difficult to say my lord – could be half a day’s march, maybe more?’ Fennell squinted through the darkness.
I thought hard. Men generally believe what they want to believe and hoped Fennell’s men were no different.
‘Middleton left yesterday so he must have been able to break through and the Scots decided to abandon the chase,’ I said confidently.
Fennell was silent for a long while as he absorbed this.
‘Could the Scots have defeated Master Middleton?’ he asked slowly.
I swallowed; this was the difficult part.
‘No. If they had, they would be busily pursuing all the survivors. Think about it; Middleton’s men fight in groups. They’re not just one single body of horsemen. There would be a series of battles between the Scots and the groups of Carlisle horse, but even if the Scots had won some of these they would have wanted to wipe out the whole force. They would not have come back here; they would have chased the survivors, hoping to kill them before they got to the border.’
‘So the Scots would have chased the survivors to the borders,’ Fennell asked hesitantly, ‘if there had been a battle?’
‘Yes, the fact that there are Scots half a day’s march away suggests that Middleton eluded them completely.’
‘I’ll tell the men what you’ve said, my lord.’ He straightened up slowly. ‘They will be glad to hear that Master Middleton has broken through.’ He paused for a moment and then added. ‘I am glad you’re here, my lord. I would not have thought of what you have just told me.’
With that he lumbered off, while I thanked God for his lack of wit, as clearly all of Middleton’s horsemen had been annihilated speedily. There were no survivors, which was why the Scots were returning. I sat silently grieving Thomas and Dick Middleton, as well as their men. It was my fault they had died, along with the 300 men of the Carlisle horse. Soon all the archers and men-at-arms here would be dead as well. Even if Middleton or Broughton had escaped, or there were any survivors, the defeat of the Carlisle horse settled the fate of the men on the hilltop. Sir Christopher Moresby would retain what was left of the forces of the West March to protect it. The last thing he would do was weaken the numbers in the West March still further by sending more troops to reinforce failure. Besides which, he would not know where to send them.
I thought of my two friends and their men. I had known Dick since we were boys, but was closer to Thomas Broughton – our thoughts and speech were attuned to one another, but now he was dead as a result of my actions.
Another idea struck me – with the defeat in Scotland, our West March was badly weakened, which would add fuel to those harmful rumours of Gloucester’s poor handling of the North. By destroying half the available soldiers in the West March and its military leadership, I had probably destroyed its chances of survival. Dear God, instead of helping Gloucester, I had probably ruined him and Anne Neville.
‘Captain Fennell said you were here, Francis.’ Edward Franke broke into my thoughts. ‘I brought you some wine; there’s a little left.’
I grunted out my thanks.
‘And Dick Middleton has broken through, Captain Fennell told the sentries. The fact that the Scots are about half a day away is good news. If they had found Middleton, they would have chased him to the border. We will need to hurry up with our defences, Fennell’s told them – but Middleton should be back in four days.’
He peered out into the night.
‘I can’t see anything though, but then Fennell can see farther than most. Do you think the Scots will attack tomorrow?’
It hardly mattered when they attacked now; our force was doomed. I had destroyed it, as I had destroyed the Carlisle horse.
‘I doubt it, Edward. In their place I would come at us slowly and carefully inspect our position. Then I would probably try to offset our advantage of archers by attacking at night. Edward, we will be busy tomorrow, get some rest now.’
I sat alone on the south side of this hill for the remainder of the night, thinking of my friends and the men I had sent to their death and how I had failed Richard and Anne.
There were happy smiles in the camp the next day. While I slept, Captain Fennell had spread the news that Middleton had broken through and the men worked eagerly on our makeshift defences. I left them to their work and eyed the approaching Scots as they moved up the valley towards our defensive position. It was a slow advance. They were in no hurry, as they knew that they had us trapped.
They came at us cautiously. I watched them ride through the valley and up and down the defiles on either side, entering the little woods further up the valley to check that we had not concealed men there. It was only when the Scots were satisfied that there was no chance of an ambush that the main party rode up and started to water their horses.
Their next moves were fairly predictable. They identified our position and sent patrols round the hill to find the easiest slopes from which to attack upwards. They quickly discovered that the western side would be the simplest route, given the steepness of the other three sides. Then they had a fairly obvious choice whether to attack us or starve us out.
To attack uphill against a large number of archers capable of firing ten arrows or more a minute would be suicidal. Even if they attacked at night, I would back the archers to win, since the contours of the hill made it impossible to come from more than one direction. In the Scots’ place, I would only attack if I needed to finish the job quickly. But as the Scots had defeated Middleton, they had no need to hurry at all. They could simply starve us out. Eventually the lack of food would force us to leave our defensive position and try to break out towards the border. Once on open ground, they would ride us down.
‘I’ve counted about 700 in the valley and there are those thirty or so on the hill opposite us, my lord.’
Fennell had obviously been watching them closely. I had been so pre-occupied that I had not noticed him approach. He gestured down to the horses by the stream.
‘It looks like the Scots have captured some of our palfreys.’
My heart sank as I saw our larger horses drinking next to the small Scottish horses.
‘There must be about 200 of them,’ he added. ‘They must be ours, as the Scots don’t use them. How
do you reckon they got hold of them?’
I turned away so he could not see the tears in my eyes. The answer was obvious; Dick’s fondness for horses was such that he would not have surrendered a single one – let alone 200 – while he still lived. The presence of the palfreys confirmed finally that he had been heavily defeated.
I thought quickly. Apart from Edward Franke and myself, there was probably no one else in the camp that knew of Dick’s love of horses and I could deal with Edward later. Casually, I turned back to Fennell who was staring across the valley at the thirty or so men on the opposite hill. Inexplicably, he was smiling happily, but then he was a simple-minded fellow.
‘Middleton has used those palfreys as a decoy,’ I said firmly. ‘He would have let them go in order to draw off the Scots and let the main body escape.’
Please let him believe me, I prayed silently. With reluctance he tore his eyes away from the far hillside and looked down at me.
‘That’s clever of him,’ he said with admiration. ‘It’s a good job you know him so well, my lord. I would have never of thought of that.’
I tried to work out if there was a hint of sarcasm in his voice but found none. Thank God he was so gullible.
‘I’ll tell the men in case any of them start wondering about those palfreys.’
‘You see that explains how Middleton broke through?’
A relieved smile came to his face.
‘Of course it does, my lord. It’s sort of proof that Master Middleton escaped. I’m glad you are here, my lord. I’ll go now, if I may?’
I nodded and went to find Edward Franke. With a little luck I should be able to persuade him that while we both knew of Dick’s obsession with horses, Dick and I were boyhood friends. Naturally, Dick would have put friendship and comradeship before his devotion to horses. He had surrendered the palfreys to act as a decoy so they could escape. My explanation would have to be particularly convincing; it would be difficult as I didn’t believe a word of it.
CHAPTER 7
‘There aren’t enough Scots for us, my lord!’ called out one of the archers to roars of laughter from his colleagues.
I delayed inspecting the barricade and smiled back at the ring of confident faces.
‘Why won’t the Scots attack?’ shouted another.
‘They’re scared of you!’ I answered with a smile.
This was the story I had put to Fennell when, after two days and two nights, the Scots had still not attacked. It was obvious that with Middleton’s troops defeated, the Scots, wisely, preferred to starve us out rather than risk an all-out assault on a fairly narrow front. I had pointed out to Captain Fennell the difficulties the Scots would face if they tried to attack and how, in their defensive position, the archers would have the natural advantage.
‘So they’re afraid?’ he growled.
He seemed disappointed there was to be no attack.
‘It’s the only reason I can think of.’ I was lying barefacedly. ‘You’ll destroy them before they get to the barricade and they know it.’
His face clouded over. Clearly he had been hoping to slaughter the Scots.
‘You’re right, my lord, of course. Mind you, they’ll have to do something soon. How many supplies do you think they have?’
It was an unexpected point. I had assumed the Scots would be able to starve us out, but while they travelled light and consumed little, after two weeks in the saddle they must be nearing the end of their own supplies. As such, it was probable they would try to complete their defeat of the English forces soon. I decided to inspect the barricade with a new conviction that tonight would be the night they launched their assault.
‘Master Middleton’s men will be back in three days!’ another archer shouted out.
There was a round of cheering. Morale was high; everyone believed what their Captain had told them.
‘Well it might be four days if he’s bringing supplies up with him.’ I sought to calm them with a strained smile.
‘Three days, four days,’ the man called back. ‘Why won’t the Scots attack?’
‘They’re terrified!’ his friends chorused loudly and there were roars of derisive laughter.
I looked at the barricade; it seemed smaller every time I stared at it.
‘What happens if they get round the flanks?’ I wanted to know.
A number of them patted the long swords they wore and one produced a heavy bullock knife.
‘Can’t say, as they won’t, my lord, but if they do, they’ll be sorry.’
There were murmurs of agreement and I moved away, feigning an air of confidence, to the eastern side of the camp. It had been agreed that Fennell would command his men on the exposed western side and I would cover the remaining perimeter with the thirty men-at-arms. We had agreed that it would be unlikely there would be an attack other than from the west, but it would be foolish to leave the remaining ground unguarded. If necessary, my men could reinforce Fennell.
I found Edward Franke peering at the small group on the hill opposite us.
‘Who do you think they are, Francis?’
They seemed the least of our problems.
‘Probably Scottish scouts watching to see that we don’t try to escape when the Scots attack from the west.’
‘I suppose so, but Captain Fennell told me that they don’t have spears like the other Scots. Perhaps, they are just looking after the captured palfreys.’
‘Edward, how are the supplies?’
‘We can last two more days, but then Dick Middleton will be back the day after that.’
I bit my lip. I had to give Edward something to do before I lost my composure and told him the truth.
‘Edward, I think that the Scots will attack tonight. I want you to be the messenger between Captain Fennell and myself. Base yourself on the western side, stay away from the barricade, and bring me word when he needs reinforcements.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
In the valley, the Scots were on the move. I saw them mounting and forming small groups. They rode south and, presently, began to loop to the right. It certainly looked as if they would attack tonight. I settled down to keep watch.
Edward Franke nudged me.
‘Captain Fennell sent me,’ he whispered. ‘There are noises on the western approach.’
I got up and looked down the sloping camp to where the three great fires burned by the marker stands. The night being cloudy, they provided the only light. With them as a background, I could make out the shapes of archers rousing themselves and slowly making their way to the barricade.
Edward helped me into my harness; I picked up my gauntlets and gave him my helmet, as I reached for my war hammer. It had been a gift from Sergeant Jervis when I trained under him. He had narrowed down the choice of weapon that most suited me to two – the war hammer and the poleaxe. After watching me in combat training for about ten days, he decided on the hammer.8
‘The poleaxe has a longer reach and it has an axe as well as a hammer,’ he had said in the end. ‘But you need to be quicker than you are. If you manage this weapon correctly, you’ll only need to use it once against any opponent. With your size and strength, I doubt there are many who could stop you. Now let’s take it slowly…’
I spotted Fennell in the centre of his men. He towered over them and shouted for them to form two crude lines. They all shuffled into position and bent down. I assumed they were placing arrows in the ground in front of them.
I left my helmet off; once it is placed on the head most sound and vision is impeded and, while it would be impossible for the Scots to ride up the other three slopes, I needed to watch and listen for enemy foot soldiers.
There was a great shout from the other end of the camp, and I heard the thunder of a hundred horses’ hooves. In a moment, the ground in front of the fires was full of horsemen galloping frantically towards the barricade with spears outstretched, screaming as they came. I could neither see nor hear the arrows that were being poured into them as t
hey charged.
It would be carnage for the Scots. They were advancing on a single front and, silhouetted against the blazing fires, the front rows would be quickly destroyed by concentrated arrow fire. The bodies would then block the charge of those following them and bunched together they would be easy, if unseen, targets for the archers. Judging by the babble at the west side of the camp, I was right. The Scottish whoops were turning to screams and the frantic neighing of their horses was gradually being silenced. Simultaneously, the triumphant roars of our bowmen grew louder and more confident.
I saw our archers gradually relax their stance; I guessed they could hear a distant drumming of hooves signalling the retreat of the Scots. I imagined none of them had got close to the camp and, since there were no mounted figures on our territory, any attempt to outflank the barricade must have failed.
‘Fennell reckons he’s used about half his arrows,’ Edward Franke panted. ‘He’s not going to try to recover any arrows until it’s light.’
‘Any losses?’
‘He didn’t say, but I don’t think the Scots came close enough. I don’t know how many of the Scots died, but we’ll find out in the morning.’
His white teeth gleamed in the gloom.
‘Dick Middleton will be angry when he returns and finds that there are no Scots left for him. He should be back…’
‘Edward,’ I said quickly, ‘tell Captain Fennell that nothing has occurred at this end of the camp, but we will continue to keep watch. Go now in case he’s worried.’
‘Oh he’s not worried. In fact, I think…’
‘Just go!’ I yelled at him.
There would be no further attacks that night, I guessed. The Scots had been badly hurt. I looked out into the darkness and tried to anticipate their next move. In their position, what would I do? There were probably sufficient numbers of them left to mount another attack tomorrow night, and by that time the three great fires would have burned themselves out. They could attack with the advantage of total darkness, but suppose that attack failed too? The obvious thing to do would be to bring up reinforcements and get further supplies. They would know that with Middleton dead; we were stranded with no food and few arrows left. They could either starve us out or mount a third attack, which would probably succeed.