There was a moment of general grumbling around the large table. Only the sitting mayor and burgesses remained quiet for their particular axe to grind was not in question but for the warriors there it definitely was an air of contention.
“They’ll be done raidin’ and back in Scotland afore these men get from the outskirts of London,” said Ralph Lumley standing in agreement of Hotspur’s attitude.
Matthew Redman also stood to show his agreement along with Ralph Percy. Seeing the higher ups standing the lesser knights stood as well leaving the city fathers the only ones sitting.
The mayor and burgesses were quick to realize there might be a decision they may have to defend at the feet of their Lord King and so they, at last, stood but as soon as they did so they passed from the table to the door with a definite slam as the last exited.
“What are we to do?” asked nineteen year old Ralph.
“We cannot just sit here until the king arrives,” answered Hotspur.
“And yet we cannot go against our king,” spoke Redman.
The sheriff of Newcastle sat and fingered the document from the king. “What say we did not get it?”
“Ha!” said Hotspur loudly. “Our troubles would mount quickly from when that oath was spoke.”
“Oath?” asked the sheriff.
“We would all have to agree and swear an oath to never tell,” said Redman.
“And kill all the city fathers, we would,” said Robert Ogle slapping his flat hand onto the table top.
The table’s attention suddenly was riveted on Ogle. He mouth turned downward as he began to speak, “This secret is a’ready out of the pouch, so to speak. We must mind its contents!”
Hotspur slowly sat as the salient words of Ogle sunk beyond his pride to his sensibility. “He is right. We must wait.”
The remaining men returned to their seats.
“What about Skirlaw?” asked Ralph meekly.
“What about Skirlaw?” returned Redman.
“The Bishop of Durham was sent a message,” explained Hotspur. “Whether he arrives here with troops or not is anybody’s guess. He has only been there for three months and of this man I personally know little else.”
“Reckon he got a message from King Richard, too?” asked Lumley.
“Doesn’t matter,” said Hotspur remembering his father’s words regarding the bishop. “If he comes, he comes.”
Redman again stood. “Can we make a contingency plan?”
“To what end?” retorted Hotspur.
Redman could not come to a decision in his own mind and so yielded the floor to any other.
“We are here and ready,” remarked Hotspur, “but our reins are held fast to the inside of West Gate wall.”
“Send out more scouts,” advised Redman.
“I have,” said Hotspur. “None so far have reported. Some have been out all day.”
“On the morn then… we will hope for a spy’s return… then we’ll know… at least somethin’,” said Redman optimistically.
August 11 - Afternoon
Southern Northumberland
Earl James Douglas’ horse dipped his fetlocks into the River Tyne.
“We’ll break here,” announced Douglas climbing from his saddle and putting his own feet, boots and all, into the cool water.
“Can we cross here?” asked George Dunbar.
Douglas looked at the far bank and saw the river was well within its banks. “I’ve crossed here afore. Yer feet get wet and it comes up to ‘bout chest high on the horses,” he opined.
Earl George shrugged, looked back at his men and waved them to water their horses then he got from his horse.
The band of warriors spread out along the river bank. The break allowed them and their mounts to drink and have a meal of oats and water. The grass along the bank was green and the gathered horses took advantage of the break to nibble what they could within the time allotted.
George hunkered near the water where his horse was drinking. He took his pouch of oats from around his neck and fingered inside for a bit of the grain.
“Hungry?” asked Douglas.
“Ne’er know what’s on the far side of a river, James,” he said ignoring the obvious answer to the Earl’s casual question.
“Reckon there’s English a’waitin’ yon, do ye?” said Douglas.
“Could be,” said Dunbar. “‘Ppears to be a mighty big castle near the bank of the river.” He pointed east about a quarter of a mile.
“That’s Prudhoe. Built with the stone from Hadrian’s Wall that was made by Romans more than twelve hundred years back. Belongs to the Umfravilles… for now,” explained Sir James. “They generally keep a moderate garrison. Don’t need more ‘cause it’s got thick high walls.”
“And they hain’t a threat?” asked George plainly.
“See that man a’sittin’ on the bank?” asked Douglas pointing more directly across the river.
George squinted his eyes tight and scanned the far bank. In a moment he saw the darkened figure sitting in the shadows of a bush and a tree. “I see him,” replied George.
“He’s our scout,” said Douglas. If there was English hidin’ on yon bank he would not be sittin’ thus to invite us o’er.”
“A’right,” returned Earl George with a flash of aggravation. “Why didn’t ye just tell me straight off?”
“Didn’t figure ye wanted to know,” replied Douglas.
“Well, I did,” snapped back George.
“Here’s somethin’ more important… Ye see the spies on the eastern hill?” asked Douglas motioning his thumb over his left shoulder.
“Saw them, I did. From Newcastle, I reckon they came,” said George a little more pleased with himself. “Want me to have them run down?”
“Nae,” replied James. “They can report. I figure Hotspur himself is lock-holed there and just wants to know our where’bouts. When they see us sallying into Durham’s country they won’t be a’comin’ for us there.”
George leaned his head back and poured a mouthful of oats in, then licked the palm and fingers of his hand. He let his saliva soak the dried oats before he began to chew. “And ye hain’t a carin’ if he knows?”
“Why should I? He’s a goodly knight… so I’m told,” said Douglas with a sneer of sarcastic insolence.
George about choked with giggles on his oats.
Douglas turned to George and smiled. He was pleased that George understood his broader meaning.
George reached his hand into the water and scooped up some to his mouth. “Reckon yer right,” replied George as soon as he could manage the words from his busy maw.
“Across the river and down a ways,” said Douglas standing tall, “is where we’re goin’.”
“I know where Durham town is,” said George as he fingered more oats from his pouch. His horse pulled its nose from the water and snorted a bit as George held his hand flat out topped with a portion of the grain.
Douglas smiled again at his friend. “Not a’goin’a choke again on yer meal, are ye?”
The horse made short work of the small mound of grain licking the earl’s palm clean.
George stood.
“‘Tis done for now… got a belly full,” he said laughing and patting the armor across his midsection.
“Get a good look at the ground here and pass this along to yer brother,” advised Douglas. “It will be here that we’ll meet the others to take our booty back to Otterburn.”
“Aye,” agreed the earl.
The two spies sent by Hotspur sat their horses on the inner line of a copse on the edge of the higher ground overlooking the Scottish knights and men-at-arms taking a leisurely moment at the water. They watched the relatively small band of twelve hundred as they mounted and crossed the River Tyne. They watched long enough to see if the suspected marauders were fixed to strike the castle of Prudhoe on the south side of the river then they turned their horses east toward Newcastle and did not seem to be in any particular hurry.
The Scottish spy who was sitting on the far bank got to his horse and fell into the queue close to Douglas.
“Ye get my message to Umfraville?” asked Douglas.
“Aye, Milord,” answered the spy. “He knows we’ll be comin’ back through in a day or two as well.”
“With plunder?” asked Douglas.
“I ne’er told him that part, Milord,” said the spy smiling broadly.
Douglas returned the smile with a nod and the spy knew to keep his mouth shut thereafter.
Serfs, who were working the castle fields near to their passing, paid little attention to the Scots presence. One young man was dispatched to the castle to report the passage but from the wall walk the Scots had already been identified and word sent to Lord Umfraville of their intrusion into his bailiwick.
Earl James Douglas and his men rode on south as if they had not a care in the world.
August 11 - Sundown
Newcastle-upon-Tyne
“How many you reckon were there at the river crossing?” asked the first English spy as they drew close to the town walls of Newcastle.
“A little some, I would say,” said the second spy. “We ought to have a same story to tell.
“Reckon you’re right on that,” said the first. “Knights and archers and spears, they were?”
“Knights and archers,” replied the second. “Knights and archers, there were… and spears.”
“I got it,” returned the first.
The pair kicked their horses hard and rode up to the West Gate of the town hard like they had been traveling fast from the beginning of their trip.
From within the large double towered gate the warden shouted, “Spies a’comin’. Open the gate!”
The spies heard the order and drew rein making their horses slide to a stop.
“That should’a given the ones on top of the wall a good show,” said the first smiling at his friend.
They could hear the clanking of chains and gears working as the gate keepers raised the portcullis to its full height. They heard the heavy oak bar being lifted out of its arms.
“Won’t be long about it now,” opined the first.
The second agreed with a nod.
The sun was near setting as the western sky brilliantly glowed with hues of golds, reds, dark blues and greens.
Hotspur was in the great hall sitting with his brother Ralph and Matthew Redman when the two spies showed up to report to their liege.
“Saw them Scotch knights you were lookin’ for, Milord,” said the first man. We reckoned it was a Douglasa’leadin’ them. Saw big red hearts on his banner, we did… Milord.”
Hotspur looked up from his trencher. “Where?”
“Crossin’ the Tyne about to Prudhoe, Milord,” said the first.
“The garrison at Prudhoe do anythin’ about their trespassin’?” asked Hotspur putting another bite of bread in his mouth.
“We waited to see if they did, Milord, but they didn’t.”
“How many?”
“A goodly but small number, reckons me,” said the first, “knights and archers… spears.”
“That’s right, Milord. Knights and archers and spears, “related the second, “all on horse.”
Hotspur waved the men away and continued eating his supper of meat and bread washed down with warm fresh made ale.
“What you figure them Scotch are about?” asked Ralph.
“I figure the Umfravilles at Prudhoe got paid off and the bishop’s goin’ to have his hands full to get Douglas from his lands.”
“We a’chasin’?” asked Ralph.
“King said no,” relayed Hotspur. “Besides that’s just a small portion of their contingent come to Durham for raidin’ purposes. They won’t get very far. King’ll be here ere long, I figure.”
“I don’t think the king’s comin’,” inserted Redman.
“Why not?” asked Hotspur rubbing his hand across his worried brow.
“We’re a long way from London,” he remarked in a quiet voice. “We who are a’ready here are probably the only ones to stop this invasion.”
“King said to wait. I’m a’waitin’,” grumped Hotspur and everyone within earshot knew by the sound of his words that he didn’t like the orders but would not go against his sovereign… just yet.
August 11
Carlisle Village
Cumberland - West March
“Somebody’s barn’s a’burnin’ yon ways off,” cried Osbert pointing toward the northeast and well over the treetops.
Claricia came from the small hovel they called home followed by three small children.
“You see the smoke?” asked Jacob, the oldest of the six children Osbert and Claricia had still living.
“I see,” replied Osbert keeping his eye on the column. “Scotch reavers, they might be.”
Claricia got a definite chill up her spine. She was well aware of the fear the Scots could bring out in a person.
“We need to get the livestock and hide in the wood ‘til they’re gone from Carlisle,” advised Osbert.
“How you figure its Scotch?” asked Claricia taking her youngest golden-locked girl into her arms.
“‘Cause there’s another column of smoke a’startin’ yon,” he said pointing in a slightly different direction then added, “Movin’ right fast this way I’d say, too.”
“I’ll gather what I can from the lodge,” said Claricia, “You get what you can from the rest of the grange.”
Osbert said nothing and Jacob was already heading for the lean-to style structure under which the family kept their only livestock, the cow and two goats.
Osbert ran to catch up to Jacob.
Within minutes Claricia scuttled from the lodge with the babies at her heels. When Osbert looked, the lodge was showing a bit of smoke.
Claricia caught up to Osbert and looked back. “Turned the cook fire out on the wall,” she admitted. “Might well give us a bit more time ere they come to investigate.”
“How you figure?” asked Osbert as he was throwing the two tied sacks of necessaries over the haunches of the cow and pitching the babies behind.
“‘Cause they’ll figure another bunch of Scotch already got here,” explained Claricia as she tugged on the tether of the stubborn goats.
They balked.
Jacob gave one of the goats a swift kick on the rump and made it jump to its feet and loudly bleat. The other followed without any further complaint.
The cock keeper held his prize fighter tight in his arms as he approached the cockpit. Men from the Castle Carlisle garrison were tightly packed around the ring so they each could get as close a look as possible at the cock that they had placed their bet on.
Gambling was certainly not beyond the interests of the castle’s custodian, Sir Ralph Neville who might have been gnarled of body from age, but was in the thick of the crowd and on the front edge of the ring, anyway.
The keeper made his way through the crowd and stood opposite his opponent who was less than three feet away.
He turned to Lord Neville for a signal to start the fight.
Excitedly Neville put his right hand up, gave it a couple of short waves and the two cock keepers held their vicious birds between their hands and began to circle the open ring taunting the cocks to their expected aggressive nature.
The surrounding men cheered when the two keepers figured the birds were riled enough. They bounced the cocks to the count of three released them on the ground.
The cocks immediately flew at each other locking talons in midair. Their beautifully colored feathers became quite a showy flurry as the first flash of blood flung across the near throng.
There was a mixture of cheering and laughing as the splattered men wiped the blood from their faces and out of their eyes.
Archibald Douglas sat his great Frisian destrier outside the strong walls of Castle Carlisle. His three thousand warriors were broadly fanning out according to his command. His archers he held close
by.
They heard more cheering inside the castle to which Earl Archibald asked his chief bowman sitting horse at his elbow, “Ye reckon where o’er that wall comes the cheerin’?”
“I reckon, Milord,” he replied
“Reckon ye also that ye could drop an arrow down their throat?” asked Archibald with a wry smile.
“It’s a try at best, Milord,” said the archer.
“Make them shut their maws,” he ordered. “Get out front there as far as ye need to be with all yer bowmen and see that the English within hain’t got nothin’ more to scream about than bein’ arrow stuck!”
“Milord,” replied the bowman then gave a whistle.
The archers sifted through the mixed lines of warriors and stood with their commander. He told them what he wanted. Archibald watched as the man pointed with his hand in the direction he had thought the cheer was coming.
They waited for another spontaneous outburst and the hundred or so archers slipped a barb into the string, drew it back in a high arch and loosed.
Just as a cock was jabbing in the killing strike on his foe the arrows began to rain down on the men in that part of the bailey.
As Archibald predicted, their cheers turned to screams of terror.
The garrison was running in every direction. The sudden storm of missiles put the whole of that end of the castle into panic. Most ran for the barracks or against the protective walls leaving the wounded and dying men where they fell.
Caught in the moment of excitement the victorious cock ran.
The guards on the wall walk, who had had their attention riveted on the cockfight wheeled to see their possible enemy. The men on the south wall stations first knew that the Scots were at their gates.
“Milord, Neville!!” they screamed loudly from the top of the wall but not in unison and what Sir Ralph Neville heard was a garble that was unmistakably a clarion call of panic.
Ralph got up the stone steps to the wall walk as best and as fast as he was able expecting to be attacked by arrows at any second. He ran a bit crouched below the top of the wall to where the guards were yelping and pointing.
Games of Otterburn 1388 Page 4