Games of Otterburn 1388

by Charles Randolph Bruce

  There was a contingent of some seven farmers who were sent to round up the livestock of the town and drive them to a near wood copse that was far enough away to not be heard in the town when the cows bellowed.

  The Scottish spy sat calmly in the square amongst the clamor of the citizens whittling on a stick making nothing more than shavings and nobody in all the fright asked him who he was.

  Somebody swooped up Old Mary who came quickly to a panicked state manifesting a kind of continual nervous hopping without her feet leaving the ground and mumbling about the Scotch who were ‘a’gonin’a cut off all their heads and put them in a big pot and boil them all up to a magic soup!

  The traumatized child kept holding her neck with both hands and crying every time she peered at Old Mary who was in a high frame of lost mind.

  More came to the four story stone tower house bringing food and weapons as they saw fit to bring. A few among the citizens were archers of some proficiency. The local farmers stopped by their tool houses to find what they imagined would be the most effective weapons they had at hand to use against the Scots from the height of the tower house. A few had old swords rusted from lack of use. Others had the occasional battle axe held by ancestors against the same enemy from previous times.

  The chief burgess was the first of the burgesses to arrive with his wife firmly in hand. He had a pouch bulging with “family things” of which he kept the identification of “family things” to himself. There were certain citizens of the town that he did not trust and was trying to think of a way to get them excluded from the tower house all together.

  The interior of the peel was fairly safe from any attempt of hostile forces. It had one small window on each side for each floor level and crenellated ramparts on the top where archers would have a distinct advantage to attacking armies.

  But at that moment when the hard oaken iron bound door was slammed shut and the hefty wide bar dropped into its arms there was no one left outside except the man sitting in the square who was still whittling on a stick and figuring all the while that the citizens were overly wrought in their zeal to be protected. In a way he could not blame them but he still would not want to be cooped in that hot stone tower with the townsfolk for anything considered valuable made on earth.

  He leaned back against a porch post surrounded by whittled chips and thought of himself as the freest man in the town. He seemed to not be wrong for he was the only human being anywhere outside the tower to be seen.

  It was easily later in the day when the beginning of the plunder herd arrived at Blakeman’s Law. Sir John Swinton was leading the pack and his squire close behind proudly handling the large square black banner with a gold chevron and three bore’s heads flapping with the speed of his horse.

  “Where ye a’wantin’ the herd?” asked Swinton as John Halliburton rode up to meet him.

  “In the loop of the river, Milord,” advised Halliburton pointing to the large green area.

  Swinton and Halliburton drew aside to let the herd be sifted through by the lads and warriors acting as herders.

  James, thinking of taking advantage of the open space kicked his horse hard circumnavigating the green space while standing tall in his stirrups and holding the flying banner as high as he could into the air, whooping all the while.

  Swinton was not amused.

  “Spirited lad ye got there for a flag bearer,” said Halliburton who was amused.

  “Where we camped?” asked Swinton seeing the encampment of some five or so hundred irregulars and lads close at hand.

  “Up yon on the hill a little ways,” said Halliburton. “Ramsey’s up there. He’ll tell ye where to make yer part of the camp.”

  Swinton nodded he understood and turned his horse as the plundered herd of mixed varieties of animals made their way into the planned area headed straight for the fresh water.

  The man they sent to be a spy in the town arrived as the last of the herd was put up and the fences were drawn across the back end of the field close to the road.

  “Ye back?” asked Halliburton.

  “For now, I am, Milord,” he replied casually.

  “Any report?” asked Halliburton.

  “Town folk are lock-holed in the tower,” he said. “I came here behind the herd… not much more than that, Milord.”

  “And their livestock?” asked Halliburton.

  “In the copse across the river,” he replied. “Where’s victuals?”

  “At the camp,” he pointed his thumb over his shoulder.

  “Douglasa’comin’ tomorrow?” asked the man.

  Halliburton grunted and without another sound put his horse under spurs thinking the man asked too many questions outside his realm of duties to suit him but he really had no true reason to mistrust him.

  August 17 - Afternoon

  Newcastle-upon-Tyne

  The rain had come again in brief torrents. Lightning strikes were abundant. One struck the top of the great square keep splaying bits of shattered stone to the thatched roof of the stable situated on the rear of the building.

  The rain water poured heavily from the lower edge of the stable roof and dripped a good bit within where the Percy brothers had retreated to the relative isolation because of the nature of the ‘many ears’ within the highly occupied keep.

  “That Douglas is a devil, I tell you!” started Ralph. “Said I was to fetch my ‘big brother’ to challenge him! Refused to take my challenge, he did!”

  “Baitin’ us, he is,” said Hotspur calmly.

  “You a’feared of him?!” spat Ralph, his eyes narrowed.

  Hotspur turned from currying his black Friesian and looked his brother directly in his eyes, “I fear no man!” he determinedly growled stepping close into Ralph’s face to illustrate the resolve of his say.

  Ralph’s breathing accelerated as his heart raced and his anger grew. “Then why don’t you fight that whoreson?!”

  Hotspur had had enough from Ralph. The bore bristle brush, usually handled by squires and grooms, hit the back of the stall simultaneously with Hotspur’s fist knocking Ralph hard against his own unsaddled destrier.

  The horse nickered and moved away.

  Ralph struck back solid with a right fist to Hotspur’s nose.

  Blood flew in a spray as Hotspur was knocked around more when Ralph got two more slugs in before his brother lost his balance and hit the thrush at the nervous hooves of his destrier.

  Hotspur rolled under his horse to escape Ralph’s added feral fist falls and to recover. Ralph had never been able to beat him before in such a fight and Hotspur was not about to allow it to happen then.

  Ralph saw Hotspur coming around the rump of his horse and went to meet him. Hotspur was ready as Ralph did not see his brother’s swift fist move through the hairs of the horse tail and hit him hard in the face with his right. The horse jumped and whinnied. Hotspur followed with the flat of his left hand on his still armored chest felling him to his own horse’s feet.

  The large disciplined destriers were maneuvering to get out of the brawling men’s way.

  Ralph’s head was raked as a hoof lashed past his cheek bringing a fresh flow of blood.

  Hotspur grabbed his brother by the arm and dragged him from the horse’s dancing feet, straddled his chest and gave him a couple more pummels to his face before he stopped. Both of the young men were breathing hard.

  Hotspur crawled off his brother and stood up.

  Ralph, still in the thrush, began to laugh.

  “You think gettin’ whipped is laughable?!” growled Hotspur still angry.

  “We ain’t had such a fight in a while,” he replied getting to his elbows, showing his bloody face.

  Hotspur smiled wiping the blood from his own face. “Should be the Scotch we fight, not ourselves,” he opined with a grimace.

  “Should be,” agreed Ralph rolling to his knees and then standing.

  “You young men done,” said Sir Robert Ogle standing just within the thatch edge so that
the water poured behind him.

  Hotspur and Ralph turned toward the voice but were silent for offered explanations.

  Ogle held his wooden bucket up a bit and said, “Come to give my horse some corn.”

  Hotspur waved the older man in then looked at Ralph and wondered why they fought but sometimes it just happened between the two of them.

  He knew Ralph was right about fighting Douglas despite his reluctance to commit to the sham combat, besides it was only a scrimmage, not a real battle. Why not show off his skills in front of his men and rub Douglas’ bloodied face in the mud like every one who stood on the wall and cheered with the English would like to do if they had the opportunity, except it would be only Hotspur who had any chance of actually accomplishing such a win against the great knight, James Douglas.

  The brothers went arm in arm through the wooden postern door to the keep having in mind to send James Douglas a message that at the first ease of the rain Lord Henry ‘Hotspur’ Percy would be forthwith upon the field of scrimmage ready to tourney with him alone.

  When Douglas got the message brought to him by what appeared to be something of a drowned rat with a pouch, he was in his tent discussing strategies with Earl George of March and Earl John of Moray.

  He held the messenger just long enough to say, “Relay to yer lord, I will be ready at the first let up of the rain.”

  The messenger, reluctant to return to the wet pour, did leave and ran as fast as he could across the field and sliding in his rain flinging boots all the way.

  Douglas’ wry smile was not ignored by his two companions.

  “What’s the best destrier we got that’s sure-footed in mud?” he asked.

  As many of the Scots did, Adara and Mungan sat among the trees close to the silage field as it rained. The pouring rain filtering through the leaves and branches seemed less wet on their heads somehow.

  Adara and Mungan looked like sopping messes as the downpour slacked off.

  “Gotta wring the water out of our clothes,” said Adara as she unfastened the cinch girdle holding her dress close to her body and unbuttoned down her front.

  “Takin’ yer dress off here?” he asked looking around to see who was close enough by to see such a sight.

  “‘Tis the wood,” she explained as she got from her dress. “Ye can do anything in the wood.”

  “Anything ye reckon,” he replied leaning against a tree trunk and skinning off his boots to pour the water out.

  “‘Tis the wee folk that keeps others from a’seein’ ye do things,” she further explained.

  “Ne’er saw wee folk,” he said going along with her idea of wringing their wet clothes.

  “They live here amongst the trees and bushes,” she said giving her dress a hefty wring at arms length. The water splashed to the ground. She giggled.

  Mungan had his trews pulled off and gave them a twist. The water splashed and Adara again giggled.

  “I figure ye just want to see the water splash,” he said then he tried to giggle but in truth it was more like a snorty, gawky laugh.

  She giggled at his attempt at reproducing her giggle.

  He frowned.

  She skinned out of her under-top baring her well formed breasts and pink nipples. Seeing Mungan’s expression as he stared at her chest she giggled more.

  “Ye get those from the wee folk,” he said only half teasing.

  “No!” she said, “Ye get these when ye get old enough.”

  Mungan dropped his trews, sop and all, to the soggy ground.

  “Wanta touch, do ye?” she asked already knowing the answer.

  He nodded.

  She took his hand and placed his palm flat against her nipple. “Now, easy squeeze it.”

  Mungan’s eyes bulged.

  She drew her under-dress up to her waist, tucked it in the band and came closer putting her arms around his neck. When she raised her self up from the ground and wrapped her legs around his middle his eyes bulged with surprise even more. What wonders she was teaching him, he thought as he was compelled to move to her moves in blind passion.

  She giggled and twisted more.

  Several of the men-at-arms walked by glancing at the giant warrior and his woman bracing their stance against the trunk of the tree, smiled a bit and went on.

  Neither Mungan nor Adara were aware of anyone about them. The wee folk were certainly earning the crumbs that Adara had recently spread among the trees for just such a purpose, she thought.

  “This is the best destrier in mud? All of yer knights have agreed,” said Earl George leading a great white stallion by the reins to Douglas.

  Douglas took the reins and felt the horse’s neck and chest. The horse pulled a bit and jerked his head. He handed the reins to his squire and ran his hands over the rump and legs. “Whose horse is this?” he asked.

  “‘Tis Sir John Edmonstone’s,” answered John Dunbar. “One of yer own knights.”

  Douglas nodded. “I know the man well,” he said as he stood and peered into the near crowd and spotted Sir John who was beaming with pride. Douglas smiled back and beckoned the man to his side.

  “All I can offer is my horse yon standin’ if I get yer’s kilt,” said Douglas.

  “‘Tis my honor ye ride him in yer joust, Milord,” said the high knight.

  “His name?” asked Douglas.

  “Sorrow, Milord,” said Edmonstone proudly.

  “Sorrow?”

  “‘Twas his mother’s death at his birth, Milord,” explained Edmonstone, “This steed has naught more than that to be sorrowful for.”

  “And he handles the mud such as we have here?”

  “He can handle it if ye but give him his head.”

  “Anything else?” asked Douglas.

  “When he lays his ears back ye can be assured he’ll be a’fightin’ for Scotland as well.”

  Douglas turned to his squire. “Tell the groom to fetch the tack from my tent.”

  “Aye, Milord,” said the squire ducking under the horse’s head and disappearing.

  Within moments the pair returned with saddle and harness all and began to shed the destrier of excess rain water and saddle him up.

  John Edmonstone went to his horse’s ear and whispered something in it that not another living one heard. He then walked away like a proud father.

  “Fetch my armor and surcoat,” ordered Douglas and his squire scurried off once more to the tent.

  Douglas saw the knight walking away. He smiled a bit and knew he was going to be riding the very best destrier available on the field that day.

  Douglas climbed aboard Sorrow and Earl George came to him saying, “What ye usin’ for a lance?”

  “Hain’t thought to have one,” said Douglas. “Sword, shield, dagger and mace is what I’ve got. Message said nothin’ ‘bout choice of weapons.”

  “Dependin’ too much on his honor,” advised George.

  “Too many here on the field for him to go too far from the core of honor,” replied Douglas.

  “Oh, he’ll not be sallyin’ from that port all alone,” said George as he went to a nearby man-at-arms who was holding a ten foot long spear. He took the weapon from the man and waved it a couple of time in the air as a sort of fidelity test and returned to Douglas’ side. “Take this, Milord. It’ll serve ye for a first round if he comes out with a lance of his own.”

  “Ye hold it for now,” said Douglas. “If I need it I’ll know ye’ll be close by.”

  His fellow earl nodded he understood.

  While, inside the castle and within his solar, four squires were fussing over the armoring of Lord Henry.

  Hotspur’s brother suddenly burst into the solar saying, “Your destrier is ready… Milord!”

  “Sun come out?” asked Hotspur holding his arms out from his shoulders so one of the squires could buckle him across the chest properly.

  “Rain’s still stopped, clouds have moved on off to the east,” reported Ralph.

  Hotspur nodded seem
ingly more concerned he was getting a comfortable buckling on his armor. His gold colored surcoat sported a blue lion rampant with a red label.

  Within moments Hotspur was on his way out of the castle’s main entrance. A squire stood alert and held the Lord’s wooden lance upright beside his great black Friesian that stood armored, chest and head champing. The relatively small colorful pennon decorated by three lions stitched in gold thread and embellished with pearls was held fast by a golden rope near the vamplate of the lance.

  “We’re ready, my brother,” said Ralph as a squire moved to place a two step box beside the horse to make it easier, more graceful to mount.

  “Who are these men?” asked Hotspur pointing to a string of twenty knights also ready for battle.

  “They’ll be on the close end of the field ready for any Scotch trickery,” replied Ralph. “They’ll be under my command.

  “You lookin’ to fight Douglas any way you can goad him into it?” asked Hotspur.

  “Precaution, Henry… merely… precaution,” assured Ralph.

  Hotspur nodded he understood and turned to climb aboard.

  There was a good mixture of townsfolk and warriors making the crowd of well wishers and they began to cheer as their hero went to his horse.

  He smiled and raised his arms to the throng then turned to mount.

  Seeing the step box standing just below the saddle stirrup and not wanting to appear to be in need of such a contraption, kicked it aside with his armored foot then placing that same foot in the stirrup swinging himself aboard quite elegantly.

  The crowd cheered him more.

  On the field the Scots heard the cheering.

  “Not to be long now, I reckon,” said Earl George.

  “Get our men ready, I will,” said John as he swung to the back of his destrier.

  “Thought this was to be single combat?” said Douglas still standing.

  “Ne’er know ‘bout those sneakin’ English. They’re puffin’ up for a reason in there,” he replied then reined around and trotted off.

  Adara and Mungan were emerging from the wood when they were approached by a young, lanky rider. “This a tourney?” he asked leaning from the saddle to get closer to the pair.