Games of Otterburn 1388

by Charles Randolph Bruce

  “Not yet,” said Henry with forced calm. Within himself he was seething to ride out and kill the whoreson Douglas but he was not about to say so aloud where he would be obliged by his pride to do something foolish.

  The English on the wall and the Scots on the ground waited in silence to see what more was to unfold as the light became more.

  “Look yon!” shouted Henry pointing across the field. “I knew it was trickery that they were about!

  Sir Ralph held his breath.

  Back beyond supposed arrow range from the wall were a hundred more small fires.

  “His army of thousands, gentlemen,” crowed Sir Henry. “His army of thousands we have heard about but never seen!”

  “I pray not,” whispered the open mouthed sheriff.

  Redman’s mouth stood agape as well as many others who were within earshot of Sir Henry’s amazing statement.

  “What will we do!?” asked brother Ralph.

  On the ground there was the same question from Sir George Dunbar, “What are we goin’ to do?”

  “Play out our string,” said Douglas solemnly taking a quick look behind him. “They must have seen the other fires by now. They have a decision to make.”

  Suddenly the gate-doors to the West Gate were swung wide.

  “Get ready to run or fight,” warned Douglas quietly to George.

  George simply nodded in agreement as he was concentrating on the dark rectangular maw standing before them.

  They then saw a single figure of a woman dressed in a white apron carrying a large basket walking forth from the maw.

  James and George seemed to be somewhat relieved.

  Sir Henry was then heard from the wall walk, “Loaves of bread to go with your pig, Douglas!”

  Douglas could not help a hearty laugh. “And will ye accept my pig in the same vein as I accept yer loaves?”

  “We will!” shouted Henry then giving a hearty laugh of his own.

  Behind the woman a man emerged and skirted the moat seemingly frantic.

  “Keep yer eye on that one,” said Douglas.

  The man suddenly stopped and waded into the water, grabbed up his sword, waded out and ran quickly back into the gate all without a word.

  “Who in hell was that?” asked Henry surprised.

  “I don’t know,” lied the warden just returning to Lord Henry’s side.

  “Ye want yer peasantry?” shouted Douglas.

  “They for ransom?” asked Henry in a polite frame of voice.

  “Ye can have them for nae ransom,” offered Douglas.

  “Not trickin’ are you?” asked Henry.

  “Yer not a’trustin’ me now?” bantered Douglas.

  “As much as you trust me is all,” said Henry.

  The two women met half way, the exchange of food was made and the tenuous mutual understanding was sealed. Neither side knew the strengths of the other but oddly both principals had high anticipation for the proposed games, giving time to both sides to figure all of that out.

  Henry was anxious to interrogate the repatriated field hands who had been temporarily taken prisoner by the Scots but after questioning them he knew no more than he had before.

  August 16 - Early Morning

  DurhamCastle

  “Three thousand, three hundred and twenty-three,” said Bishop Walter Skirlaw as he laid his quill beside his ledger book and looked up.

  “I heard over ten thousand we must match,” replied Thomas de Boynton, sheriff of Durham town.

  Sir Henry Percy has quite a number of men himself waitin’ in Newcastle, you know,” said the bishop sitting back in his strong, well structured hand carved chair with stylish cushions lining the interior.

  “We have to have superior numbers,” came back Boynton. “We cannot afford to have anything but total victory.”

  The bishop blinked occasionally as he stared off and reflected.

  “Your Grace?” said Boynton after a length of silence.

  “What?” said the bishop coming to himself. “Superior numbers… of course… total victory.”

  “Are you a’right?” asked Boynton sincerely concerned.

  “Keep seeing those poor souls dead in the street,” said the bishop. “Pure stone dead, they were.”

  “Have you not seen the dead before?” asked Boynton.

  “But not dead because of me, my son,” replied Skirlaw slowly wringing his hands. “Not on my hands was anyone else’s blood… ‘til now.” He trailed off toward the end thinking of a penitent act God might require of him to perform so that he would be welcomed at the gates of heaven and moreover into its holiest inner circle.

  The sheriff rolled his eyes and secretly wondered if he needed to fetch a priest to perform a confession for the bishop.

  The bishop took a long sighing breath and said, “We will wait to see if more come.”

  “You’re right, Your Grace,” said Boynton. “There are still unfilled warrants out to some locations that have not reported.”

  “We’ll wait to hear from them ere we sally toward Newcastle,” said Skirlaw. “In the meantime we’ll send a message to the Percys and tell them we’re full pressed to come to their aid with… say… six thousand troops that we are amassing now… How does that sound?”

  “Hope he doesn’t count the men when we get there, Your Grace,” muttered the sheriff quietly and with a strong tinge of sarcasm.

  “What say, Boynton?” asked Skirlaw.

  “Nothin’ , Your Grace,” piped up Boynton not wanting his human feelings to put his immortal soul into holy jeopardy.

  “Then best keep your mouth from running away with your salvation,” replied Skirlaw.

  “Yes, Your Grace,” he replied knowing then that his errant words did not escape the ears of the bishop and in fact he may have greatly underestimated the man. He vowed to never to make that mistake again.

  “Send the message, Sheriff Boynton,” demanded Walter Skirlaw forcefully. “And be assured, sir, I will carry out the duties of my station… honorably.”

  “Never a question, Your Grace, never a question,” lied Boynton as he stood and bowed obsequiously. “I will get the message away post-haste, I swear, Your Grace.” Boynton then backed out to the antechamber and scaddled through the door.

  Bishop Walter Skirlaw had been guilty of letting his inner thoughts escape into the air at an inopportune moment. He vowed to keep such things in the future between God and his silent praying lips. His feelings of guilt and fear were wearisome to be sure but allowing them out to another human being was truly politically dangerous.

  August 16 - After Sunrise

  Newcastle-upon-Tyne

  It was in the King’s hall on the ground floor level that Henry Hotspur and his knights and barons gathered to see to the taking of their morning meal. The leg of pig from the outside Scots was the main course as the English were intrigued and going along with the ambiance of the day.

  “What you reckon James Douglas has workin’ in that pate of his?” threw out Henry across the table for his gathered few to comment upon.

  “You mean besides pig?” asked Redman as a jest.

  Nobody laughed.

  “Maybe he heard about the king’s letter sayin’ to not attack ‘til he arrives,” seriously jabbed Redman.

  Henry grimaced at the thought. He wished he had never seen the letter. Had he not seen it he would be free to get rid of Douglas and his whole army, he figured.

  The elder Robert Ogle worried aloud where the great Stewart army of Earl Robert was why they were hiding.

  Nobody paid attention.

  “All in all there’s not much more than a thousand at our gate, a vanguard as such,” observed Ralph Eure. “Be easy to rough over that little few.”

  “Don’t be under estimatin’ those Scotch,” said Ralph Percy. “Soon as you do they’ve got you dead.”

  “I would play along with his ‘tourney’ so long as we don’t let it get too far out of hand,” said Lumley. “They are cunnin’
folk.” He held a piece of the fresh pork aloft impaled on the end of his knife point and added, “This pig might have very well been wallerin’ in the mud on my lands in Durham two days back.”

  “Taste like home cooked pig, does it?” sniped Eure without a smile.

  “So you lost some pigs, Lumley, ‘tain’t the first time,” growled Matthew Redman.

  “We’re gettin’ off the subject, gentlemen,” said Henry. “The problem is… what are we fixed to do today?”

  “I say go along with the day,” reiterated Sir Ralph Lumley. “I’ll commit my York contingent of knights to the… ‘tourney’ as they put it.”

  “You ain’t concerned?” asked Ralph Percy.

  “Not at all! English can beat Scotch any time and any place!” insisted Lumley.

  Sir Ralph smiled. He was looking forward to the challenge for his own reasons.

  A squire came to Sir Henry’s shoulder and passed a message to him. He opened it and read it and reported, “Reckon we’ll be findin’ out right quick.”

  “A word from the Scotch?” asked Redman arching a brow.

  “From our warden of the garrison actually, Milords,” said Henry, “Seems we have twenty yeomen ready to take on twenty of our yeomen in a free for all mêlée if we so choose to pick up the gauntlet.”

  “They on foot or mounted?” asked Lumley.

  “These men are mounted with no spears,” replied Henry.

  “I’ll go against his twenty,” announced Lumley putting his head back and looking lofty minded.

  “No nobles. No knights,” explained Hotspur rationally. “You cannot be their principal, Milord.”

  “No leaders?” spouted Sir Ralph.

  “That bastard Douglas is makin’ up all the rules!” growled Lumley slamming his flagon on the pig bone sloshing his wine over the table.

  “Careful, Lumley… That be Durham pig, not Scotch pig you’re a’rilin’,” Henry said with a smirky smile. “Come we’ll make wagers on the games.”

  “Which of us, you reckon, is goin’ to wager good coin on the Scotch?” sagely asked Sir Ralph.

  Nobody wagered at all after that comment.

  August 16 - Morning

  Newcastle-upon-Tyne

  In Front of the West Gate

  English warriors were packed two and three thick along the wall walk on both sides of West Gate and as far down as to where the wall turned in both directions. The Saint George’sred cross on a white field flew from the top of one tower of the gate while the Earl of Northumberland’s flag of blue lions rampant on a yellow field was quartered with the three white pikes on a red field of the de Lucy family.

  There were a variety of banners and pennons mounted at intervals along the wall top signifying many of the knights who were lodging within.

  On the field Adara was adjusting the sword belt of Mungan who was slated to fight in the first planned skirmish of the day.

  “Been doin’ tourney e’er afore?” she asked.

  Nineteen other yeomen were being similarly suited up for the challenge.

  “Ne’er afore,” he admitted. “A’plenty a regular fightin’ though.”

  “Yer lookin’ good, my friend, best than any other,” she bragged.

  Mungan smiled slightly. His size did little to alleviate his haunting fear of fighting before spectators to do killing work.

  Adara tied the ribbons to his quilted jerkin down the sides under his arm on both sides. She could tell he was apprehensive about what was supposedly a sham fight but was anything but a sham.

  Douglas rode his horse up to the men readying themselves for the fight.

  “I want ye men to line up in two rows across and when I drop my sword I want ye to attack as hard as ye can,” he explained.

  “We supposed to kill them or just hurt them as we can, Milord?” asked Mungan as Adara was still fidgeting with his ties.

  The Scots warriors nearby teased Mungan saying, “Ye need to get kilt so we can have yer bonny wench, laddie!”

  Mungan frowned. He thought women were bad luck in war anyway and that was not helping.

  Douglas advised, “Wound them if ye can. Kill them if ye must.”

  Mungan looked at Douglas and nodded his understanding. Events that did not happen according to his training and experiences in warlike circumstances were overtaking Mungan’s confused warrior mind.

  Adara turned the large man so that he faced her and whispered so that none other could hear, “Ye are my hero. Ye saved me from the English bastards. I am yers for as long as ye want me to be. Weary not about another.”

  He grumped a bit but Adara knew her message got to him because he seemed different.

  “Line up on that silage field, this end and beside the peasant hovels,” ordered Douglas.

  Adara quickly checked to see that Mungan had his axe, sword, dagger and buckler then she went up as high on her toes as she could stretch, put her arms around his neck pulling with all her weight and kissed him on the lips.

  The men close by hooted insincere encouragement as a jest.

  Mungan was a bit embarrassed but it coaxed a smile to his wet lips.

  She handed him his helm that he put over his coif of chain mail that also covered his shoulders and tied under his chin with leather strips.

  Many of those twenty had to borrow at least one weapon from a fellow warrior to be fully outfitted.

  Suddenly the gates opened and out rode Sir Ralph Percy in full regalia. His yellow shield emblazoned with a blue lion rampant theme echoed on his tabard and horse trappings.

  James Douglas mounted up and gave his men a last word of encouragement then spurred his horse to meet the young brave impetuous knight who showed up on the field without benefit of an entourage.

  “Where’s yer twenty to go against my twenty?” Douglas asked wondering if there was trickery in the single knight’ demeanor.

  Sir Ralph raised his visor. “Be here directly,” said Percy. “We’ll be bringin’ more knights onto the field.”

  “What for?” asked Douglas already guessing the answer. “Feared we’ll jump on yer twenty and slay ‘em?”

  “We don’t mind the skirmish but playin’ the fool we will not do, Milord,” answered Ralph.

  “Bring as ye like,” said Douglas, “We have nothin’ to hide! Let the games be!”

  Douglas followed his talk with a great war whoop and Ralph followed that with his own boisterous whoop.

  There was spontaneous cheering from the ground as the whole troop moved a bit closer to the tourney field.

  Ralph raised his arm and waved his contingent of knights to sally forth.

  From the gate tunnel and across the simple bridge spanning the moat, rode out thirty English knights fully clothed, armored and armed in tourney regalia. They took their place in a line beside the field with their banners whipping in the morning breeze.

  The twenty Scots took their place on the silage field.

  The twenty better and more uniformly dressed English men-at-arms, similarly armed, walked out and lined up opposite them.

  There was a great howling and cheering from the wall walk seeing their men on the field.

  The two sides stood about fifty feet away from each other in the field that was knee high with barley and oats. Many times such grains were referred to as corn.

  Hotspur watched from a select position atop the wall. He was ever wary of the Scots but did not want to appear in anyway fearful of his enemy. It was part curiosity and a larger portion of stubborn pride that held him fast to his chivalric code which was exactly what James Douglas was counting on.

  Douglas rode to a midpoint and drew his sword

  The field and surrounds grew eerily quiet in anticipation. The caws of crows were heard protesting the taking of their cornfield for such foolishness, so they thought.

  Holding it high, both sides watched as his sword blade was decisively swooshed to the feet of his horse.

  The war was on. The crows nervously jumped and flew from their
branches as the cheering, hooting din of the crowds suddenly exploded in every hollow of the neighborhood.

  Douglas backed his horse to get beyond the expected battle area and took his stand beside Sir Ralph Percy.

  Mungan ran slower because of his bulk so there were others engaged before he reached the knot of fighting men. There was a large English warrior holding back and looking straight at Mungan. The equality of height and mass prompted the challenge and it was understood by Mungan.

  Mungan however paused and took a moment to bash a close by English on the helm with the flat of his bearded axe. The man dropped immediately to the ground as the first fallen.

  Groans of disapproval were heard from the wall.

  Mungan paid no attention but moved immediately to the man who challenged him with his eyes.

  Mungan saw that he had a strong metal buckler that was better than his own well tortured one and instantly decided to not dull his sword on it.

  The Englishman came at Mungan with his sword and swung a side blow to Mungan’s midsection.

  Mungan blocked it with his buckler and swung it out throwing the big man off balance then took the head of his axe and smashed his face with the top of it. Blood spurted in every direction and the big English warrior fell to the ground writhing in pain and holding his face.

  The Scots were cheering loudly.

  Mungan looked across to his liege for instruction.

  Douglas intentionally gave no indications.

  Mungan grabbed the man’s bloody hand and dragged him to the edge of the field beyond harms way.

  He looked at the man and looked at his buckler. He took his own bent buckler off and threw it on the ground and took the better one off the man’s arm and put it on his own. There was no complaint.

  The other yeomen were hard at fighting hand-to-hand with swords, axes, and daggers.

  Mungan walked back into the mêlée battle and chose another to confront. He transferred his axe to his left hand where he wore the buckler and drew his sword as he came to a smaller man that seemed to be spryer than the last.

  The smaller man took the first swing that caused Mungan to deflect the blow with his buckler. Mungan swung back against the English buckler. The man then took a parry swing at Mungan’s head. Mungan moved back quick enough to avoid a fatal strike that instead swiped only the air under his chin.