“Why not? They’re alive and we’re alive?” said Swinton.
“‘Cause we eat them,” rationalized James as he began to feel he was losing his philosophical position in the conversation.
Swinton kicked his horse to keep up with the caravan or to get beyond the questions of James. It was certainly unclear to the lad.
But James caught up.
The pair rode along for a while.
After a span of silent thoughtful reflection the knight admitted, “I like the idea of heaven… Don’t much care for the hell part, though.”
“That’s what I was thinkin’ about that spy, Alfred,” started James. “I puzzled he was evil and bound straight for hell and the fires… but that was just because he spied against us.”
John nodded and was confused with his thinking squire.
James continued, “So if the Holy Angels were on our side the spy would be goin’ straight to hell?” his voice went up on the end to indicate he was expecting an answer.
John was stumped for that answer and so simply said, “Go on,” to see if he could garner more clues as to where the lad was going with the thought. At any rate the question made him uncomfortable.
“A’right,” said James and got ready in his mind for his next big thought that he hoped would not get him struck dead by a lighting bolt from heaven, “What ye reckon if… the Holy Angels were on the English side… then the spy would be off to heaven in a wink of an eye and we’d be the ones bound for hell for the killin’ of him… ye reckon?… Milord?”
John was lost on such conversation and had, at that moment, wished he had not offered his trite analogy to the lad who was searching for a greater meaning than the knight thought possible at the opening nor did he have the wit or knowledge to counsel James further.
The two of them rode on side by side for quite a while, the unanswered question hanging invisible in the air between them.
The walking boys who were herders kept their switches busy on the rumps of the animals to maintain them moving along as the riding men-at-arms kept a sharp eye out for local reivers.
They made the course change toward Otterburn around Scot’s Gap where, to mark the spot, once stood an old Roman castle house. The quarried blocks of stone had been rolled and wheeled away in various directions for other uses and left standing was hardly more than one stone stacked on another.
Soon they went across the creek on the far side of the tiny village.
With no reason, James turned in his saddle and reconnoitered the uphill landscape and that was when he saw the lone figure holding the reins of his horse and standing statue like in the bright afternoon sun casting long shadows up the hill.
“Yon’s another one of those sneaky spies, Milord,” he commented.
“Just one?” asked John not looking back.
“One,” he answered then he turned to the front. “Want me to chase after him?”
“Just keep lookin’ back occasionally, James,” advised his liege. “Let me know if he follows us or if there’s more of them.”
“Ye mean, he might not be a spy but an English army scout?” asked James.
“Might not be a spy,” said John.
“I like to think of them as goin’ straight to hell if they hain’t our spies, Milord.”
“Ask a monk about Holy Angels when next ye see one, squire.” answered Swinton gruffly, just wanting to get beyond the conversation.
He kicked his horse hard and sallied toward the front of the queue where he knew there must be potentially less knotty problems to consider.
At the crest of the subsequent knoll James looked back searching the landscape but he saw no indication of the rider’s whereabouts.
Then after rising high in his stirrups he espied him at the top of the next crest over and knew by his direction that the man had been sent from Newcastle. “Best tell Milord,” he muttered under his breath and kicked his horse to do just that.
August 16 - Late Afternoon
Newcastle-upon-Tyne
“Yer a’gonna die! I know yer a’gonna die!”
Mungan opened his eyes a wee bit and saw Adara weeping over him. She turned bleary he thought. “Hain’t breathin’,” he mumbled almost incoherently.
Adara wept a little louder answering him between sobs, “‘Cause ye… still got rippin’s from my dress… stuffed in yer broken nose. Recollect that, do ye!?”
He reached to pull the cloth from his nostrils but he didn’t get far for the pain. He winced and growled dropping his arm back to the ground. “What’s wrong with my arm?” he asked weakly.
“Ye got it hurt in the fight ye were havin’ with the castle folk,” she said with a fresh rush of tears.
Mungan’s memory leaked back into his mind. “Did I lose my buckler?”
“Nae,” she said, “‘Tis here under yer saddle.” She wriggled the saddle under his head so he understood.
Mungan grunted. His whole huge frame seemed to ache from head to toe. He had not been in such a harsh battle for quite a while and he was beginning to think his youth was passing him by. “I’m a’gonna die?” he asked at length.
“Thought so ere ye opened yer eyes,” she admitted.
“Am I bleedin’?” he asked hardly wanting to know the answer.
“Oh, ye got blood all o’er ye,” she exclaimed looking up and down his body.
Mungan went silent for a moment more to absorb the news then asked, “Where’s it comin’ from?”
“I don’t rightly know,” she answered appearing to be on the verge of another shower of tears. “Other folks that were a’fightin’… I reckon.”
Mungan forced himself to his elbows despite the pain and looked down his body. True enough he was covered in blood but he was glad to see that none of it was coming from any wound of his. He looked further across the field where many of his comrades were laid out on the ground very similar to how he was laid except he had somebody to put his saddle under his poor aching head. Some of them seemed to be sure enough dead. Others moaned from their wounds. Beyond the littered field he saw more of his friends who had been in the mêlée with him sitting on logs or stones or simply hunkered on their own haunches with strips of beef wound around green skewer sticks hanging over small camp fires. He wished he could smell the meat cooking.
“Thought that was suppose to be another one of those sham fights,” said Mungan pulling his elbow props out from under him and laying his head back on his saddle. He gave a long sigh. “Hell I hain’t hurt at all,” he said with a sense of relief but he could hardly move his muscles all the same.
Adara reached across his bulk and gave him a big loving hug. “I’m glad ye hain’t fixin’ to die on me,” she said then kissed him on his blooded cheek.
“We won this fight, too,” said James Douglas stripping to his waist and handing the shirt to his squire. He waded his bare feet into the edge of the Tyne and splashed the cool water over his sweaty chest. He went deeper into the river and rubbed the dried blood from his trews then took them off throwing them to his squire.
“We won a’right,” said Earl George sitting on the bank air drying from his own dip in the water, “but what have we won? Nae kine. Nae ransoms. Nae nothin’ more than war experience for our men.”
“That... and honors. We’ve won honors,” answered Douglas swimming out to a deeper part of the river. “And we’re keepin’ them penned here.”
“I know yer still a’sayin’ that, but when we don’t know that they know anything ‘bout our plunder headed back to Scotland, I don’t figure that’s the true reason we’re here.”
“So what do ye reckon that true reason is?” asked Douglas concerned about his friend’s mindset.
George paused a moment staring at Douglas and wondering whether he should express his inner feelings without a shred of proof or even another’s opinion but before he talked himself out of his notion he blurted it out, “I think ye’re enjoyin’ pinchin’ the nose of the great Hotspur!”
Do
uglas laughed.
George did not but sat solemn leaving Douglas wordless.
George thought to add to his blurt, “Who, for some unknown reason, won’t come out and challenge ye direct.”
“His little brother challenged me,” said Douglas just before he ducked his head under the water rubbing his fingers through his hair.
He soon bobbed back to the surface with a gasp.
“But ye refused his challenge,” said George. “Hell, I would’a taken him on… but ye wanted Hotspur.”
“I reckon,” said James pulling himself from the water by handfuls of the tough grasses along the bank. He turned and sat beside his comrade to air dry in the last sun of the day. “I reckon I do want to see how I would fare against Hotspur just for the sport of it.”
“So ye want to sit about here ‘til we got no men left?” sarcastically asked George seemingly more distraught than before.
Douglas gave a disarming smile. “Tell ye what, my friend...”
George looked at James with a dour face not knowing what to expect.
“We’ll see tomorrow if I can coax dear Henry ‘Hotspur’ from his aerie… and if I cannot we’ll hie for Otterburn first light on day next.”
George nodded in agreement and was pleased to understand that there was a plan in the mind of his commander that made some sense even though he knew he would not have strategized the events in the same manner.
Inside the castle Hotspur was purely livid. His knuckles were bloody raw from beating his fists against the stone wall from where he watched the mêlée sham fight, even though he had heavy leather gloves on for protection.
He sat in a large, well cushioned, chair rubbing salve on his smarting fingers.
His brother Ralph sat fuming across the round tapestry rug from him.
Neither of them wanted to spout into the air that which was eating them alive in their heads and in their hearts.
“I have a plan,” started Ralph at last.
Hotspur glared at his brother disbelieving he dare have another plan. “I think ye’d best keep yer plan to yerself, brother,” he advised in an uncomfortable and even threatening voice.
Ralph’s lips moved almost imperceptible as he gritted his teeth but controlled his bitter anger for Hotspur’s attitude.
Hotspur seethed more for the English loss of the day.
Ralph seethed more for his hand being stayed by his brother.
“Hope they’re gone on the morrow,” muttered Hotspur.
“Hope they’re still here,” said Ralph in opposition.
Henry looked again at his rebelling brother. “Still figure to get your gauntlet picked up by Douglas?”
“What’s left for me if not that?” said Ralph.
Hotspur went silent and brooding again.
Ralph stood and left him to his gloomy stupor thinking to find allies in other parts of the castle who had some influence over brother Hotspur and would, at least, give an ear to his next day’s plan.
The south side of the wall at Newcastle abutted the edge of the Tyne River. The water flowed through the moat carrying the waste and sewage of the town’s inhabitants to the regular stream of the Tyne.
There were piers jutting into the water all along the river bank against the wall and beyond that welcomed quite a large variety of commercial water borne craft from Europe and even the Mediterranean Sea.
From the stern of a particularly long ship with a flat shaped stern sat an old man fishing with his net and dangling his booted feet over the side. He had about ten good sized fish lying near his water soaked britches that he had netted and clubbed to death as he brought them aboard.
The light of the day was getting short and the old man was well satisfied with his day’s catch despite the happenings on the west side of the wall and so decided to make a last cast of his net for the day.
When he gave his net a quick tug it felt as if he had snagged a whale. He pulled as hard as he could manage.
“Help me get this one in and I’ll be a’givin’ you half it,” he generously offered a close mate.
The man jumped at the opportunity and climbing aboard the boat and up onto the stern deck the old man handed him a portion of the net lines. He took a good grip and both of the men pulled hard on the ropes.
“Ain’t strugglin’ none!” said the old man’s companion.
“Damned big tree branch, I reckon,” said the old man in frustration. “Just tearin’ up my good best net! Damn you branch!!” he cried out in anger. “Damn you!”
“Cursin’ ain’t likely to be of much help,” advised his friend. “You gotta get it up and clear the net.”
“You help?” asked the old man then knowing he had nothing more to bargain with than the fish that were wetting his behind. “Give you half these fish here,” he offered.
The younger man nodded at the offer and renewed his enthusiasm for getting the net out of the water.
The two men pulled until the net broke the surface of the water.
They looked to see their unwanted catch.
“What you reckon?” said the old man looking into the dark water.
The second man laid down on the deck and leaned his head overboard to get a better look.
He suddenly raised up as far as his arms could manage and peered desperately at the old man saying, “You’ve caught yourself a dead man.”
“You mean a real dead man?”
“The one the lord hanged off the wall… I saw it yesterday,” explained the man. “Still got the hangin’ rope tied ‘round his neck and he’s all bloated, too.”
The old man was quiet with disbelief. His catch for the day had been good but now it was tainted, he thought. “‘Tis tainted, all,” he said aloud in a repulsed tone. “My good, best net. All tainted.”
“You tellin’ the wharf warden?” asked the younger man.
“Ain’t tellin’ nobody I got such sad fortune as to have caught an evil dead man,” he replied. He then stood with water from his wet britches dripping into his tops of his boots and dropped his portion of the lines into the water. “You can have all the fish. Net to if you have a mind,” he conceded. He glumly turned, got from the ship and walked down the pier and through the open sally port into the town thinking a cup or two of ale would be a good medicine for his confused head.
The young man, still holding to his portion of the net lines, let them loose to fall easily into the water. He watched as the dark ‘net-wrapped’ form floated aimlessly on the slow currents of the Tyne and disappeared into the blackness of the night.
He looked down at the fish on the deck the old man had caught with the same net and wondered about the nature of ghosts of the recent departed and evil spirits.
He sighed deeply and was seemingly anguished. He kicked the dead fish back into the water and followed the old man down the pier and out the sally port hoping no wicked spirits had attached themselves to his valuable soul, as he feared.
August 17 - Dawn
Carlisle
‘Twas again dawn on the surrounding field at Castle Carlisle. One day earlier had witnessed the terribly eventful death day for not only the English troops but for the Scottish troops as well for which there still was no accounting.
The herbwyfe, Lucy, who had arrived with the slower traveling contingent of pack mules and enough warriors to protect it, was awake already attending the wounded in the light fog. She had prepared a poultice for their wounds and treated every Scot who was presented to her during the course of yesterday.
She stooped beside a young man of no more than fifteen years. His wounds were a slash across the face and nose and a lesser strike on his belly. But for his battle won chain mail coif covering his head and shoulders his wounds would have been much worse if not deadly.
“Ye a’right?” she asked from her stoop while carefully peeling the poultice pack away from his face cut.
“I’m a’right,” replied the lad weakly.
She replaced the poultice and retied the knot t
o the strip of cloth that held the pack in place and smiled gently as she looked the man in his eyes. “Where’s yer home?”
“Middle part of Galloway,” he said then began to seize in his belly a bit. “Vassal of Lord Archibald, I am,” he added.
“Ye awake when they attacked yesterday morn?” she asked more for personal interest than that of being a physician.
“Sleepin’ yon,” he said pointing toward the castle. “First one hit,” he admitted. “Odd awakenin’, I figure.” He smiled.
Lucy lifted his shirt to see to his belly slash. She peeled back the poor smelling poultice patch to an even worse smell and turning blue around the actual wound. “I’ll have to fix another mixture,” she said. “This’n’s got a touch of the gangrene.”
“Ye sure… I nae feel no pain where it’s cut,” he remarked lifting his head and trying to see his midsection.
“Be back directly,” she promised as she stood from her hunker and moved on to another patient.
On the wall of Castle Carlisle a guard pointed out the barely visible field of weeds in front of them.
The Captain of the Guard, Sir William, peered over the top of the wall and into the nearly imperceptible grayness. Rudely he asked, “What am I to see, guard?”
“‘Ppears to be the dead, Milord,” said the wall sentry.
The captain strained his eyes more. “Ain’t a’seein’ nothin’,” he said. “We’ll wait for more light.”
The wall guard had little interest in getting his neck out any further onto the proverbial chopping block and so answered, “”Yes, Milord. With more light.
“Then call me.”
“I will, Milord.”
“If there’s somethin’ to see.”
“Yes, Milord… if there’s somethin’ to see.”
The warden puffed from the wall walk and into the donjon’s great hall.
Lord Ralph Neville was at a trestle table, sitting a bench and eating a rasher of bacon with fresh loaf bread. He saw William come into the hall and waved him over to join him. William pulled a second bench from a nearby table and sat across from his liege lord addressing him with a pleasant platitude.
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