Games of Otterburn 1388

by Charles Randolph Bruce

  “Get George up on the hill to protect our north side,” ordered Douglas then added, “and if ye can spare men to help Swinton and Ramsey in the servant’s camp send them fast! I can see from here they’ve got their hands full of the English and we hain’t seen ‘our friend’ Hotspur come to get his pennon, as yet!”

  John glanced at the bit of silk cloth hanging from the spear placed upright in the ground and for an instant philosophically wondered about the power some would give to such a scrap of material embroidered with semiprecious pearls but then again, he thought, perhaps it was just a kind of excuse used to go to war. A symbol of pride employed to rile his minions to a high state of blood lust.

  John was shaken back to reality when Douglas asked, “Ye a’right?”

  “Aye… Aye,” he replied.

  “Where’s yer helm?”

  John felt his head and rubbed his fingers over nothing more than chain mail covering his arming cap. “Don’t know, I reckon,” he snapped.

  “Then go get George!” said Douglas, “Our northern flank is in jeopardy!”

  “Aye, but we will know when they come… I have seen to that,” said John then left in a hurry to find his brother.

  Without a warning of any sort an arrow thudded the ground at Douglas’ foot. He jerked back and instinctively looked about the field. Seven or eight of his men-at-arms and footmen fell to the ground from arrow wounds.

  Douglas ran down the hill to the defensive barrier. His spearmen were stoically holding strong to their weapons across the span of probable attack. Several along the line had caught English arrows and were trying to deal with the pain as they pulled them from their limbs and bodies. The thick foliage on the trees under which they were standing caught the bulk of the volleys of barbs.

  Looking beyond the contingent of archers he saw their commander Hotspur. “Close the gap!!” screamed Douglas when he realized the knights and men-at-arms were hanging back letting the archers do their initial thinning of the army. “Close the gap!! - Close the gap!!”

  John came rushing up to the waist-high wattle screaming on his own, “Over the fence!! – Over the fence!!” He was the first one over the barricade and the others followed in quick order holding their spears straight out to their fronts and running hard.

  Hotspur saw the hurdle and realized the horses were a hindrance so he dismounted giving the order for his others to do the same. The horses were led toward the back of the army by the younger squires and pages.

  The archers aimed higher and loosed their arrows as the gap closed.

  Hotspur was anxious and urged his men to run their fastest to meet the enemy head on. The launched arrows could not be called back and when the sorties came to rest they pierced as many English bodies as they did Scots.

  Sir John Copledyke shouted the order to the archers, “Put down your bows and get to your swords!”

  The archers obeyed in quick time abandoning their horses and following Hotspur into his crucible wedge of fearfully imagined hell screaming, “Percy! Percy!”

  The forces of John Dunbar and Hotspur Percy clashed on the mid ground. The front ranks of the spearmen took the brunt of the death blows in an arrogant sickening amalgamated din of groans, cries of abject pain and the violent strikes of metal forcing metal to the bend of opposing wills.

  The field spread wider with the addition of the archers as they pushed against the forward mob of fighters and John Dunbar’s men were forced to give way to the overwhelming pressure rather than be flanked or even surrounded which would have been disastrous.

  The sun had spent its worth for the day on Blakeman’s Law and the darkness was swallowing the whole of the welkin except for a thin red line on the western horizon.

  Douglas watched John Dunbar furiously fighting and encouraging his men onward as they were all the while backing toward him. Sir John Edmonstone was no less totally engaged with sword and dagger as he could reach his enemy in the press of death.

  Douglas glanced to his left to see his contingent formed and awaiting his leadership. He looked to his right and saw Swinton and Ramsey persevering against Matthew Redman and Robert Ogle. Without realizing the lack of his full body armor and his identifying surcoat he headed straight for his contingent.

  Redman’s banner was retrieved from the ground by one of his brave men as Sir Robert Ogle worked his way into the confined area with his contingent of men-at-arms.

  “Yon’s the English plunder,” shouted Ogle to Redman as they easily fought back the untrained and unmounted warriors who could do little more than nip at their armor covered feet.

  “Dear Hotspur wants us to get behind the main force and attack!” came back Redman.

  “I figure if we go up that left side we’ll have the whole of them surrounded!” said Ogle moving his horse to swat at the heads of the brave lads attacking them.

  Swinton and Ramsey were surrounded by Redman’s several knights bent on having both of the Scots heads tied to their saddlebows in short order.

  “Let’s run these runts off and come back for the reived cattle and get their warhorses as well!” suggested Ogle.

  “A’right,” agreed Redman, “They’re already runnin’ up the road… let’s give chase!”

  Figuring that if they followed the fleeing Scottish servants their men would soon follow them, they set spurs to their mounts and trotted after the fearful lads who had little choice but to run.

  As the forty men-at-arms sent by John Dunbar arrived to bolster Swinton’s fighters the scattering of the younger boys had already begun as the dusk light was dwindling fast. The forty joined the fight taking their long spears and knocking the English warriors out of their saddles.

  They stabbed and beat them as they fell to the ground hard and in a state of disorientation.

  “What about the main battle?” asked Ogle only guessing at Redman’s true intentions.

  “Be a while ere he’ll need a second side attack the way I figure,” said Redman and laughed so the Ogle realized his suspicions were becoming a reality and Redman was ready to let Hotspur hang or win as the whim of fate momentarily desired.

  Redman liked the retrieval of the cattle for the England landowners but certainly not for Hotspur who belittled him before his close men and he secretly swore revenge when they both stood on the wall of Newcastle where Sir James Douglas was winning at every turn against Hotspur.

  More of Redman’s men followed as did Ogle’s and in the early twilight moments they began poking the bushes with their swords expecting a Scottish lad to hop up like a hare and run for his life.

  The English were not disappointed and thought it good sport to slash them down from horseback as they ran as fast as they could. It was not dark enough to hide well since most were dressed in light colored shirts and not light enough for any of the regular warriors to see their plight and organize a rescue. They were very much on their own and sadly enough they knew it.

  Adara squatted into a large bush as she heard the screaming of the freshly slashed and the follow-up laughter of an English mounted man-at-arms who had managed to kill his escaping quarry.

  She made herself into as small a ball as she could devise and pushed as deep into the bush as she dared while keeping her fist tight to the handle of her short sword.

  Her hatred for English men flared while her fear of them tempered her anger. She sat quiet listening to the horror all around her position.

  Suddenly she heard a close by man say, “Got one here!”

  Her nerves shattered her backbone at first. Her eyes rolled upward to see if the man had really spotted her. He had and was getting from his horse to further investigate his find in the wan light.

  Adara sat still griping her weapon all the tighter.

  The English pulled back the brush to look straight at her.

  She made no move but kept her fearful eyes glued on his.

  “‘Tis a girl!” he shouted to a close cohort.

  “Woman?” questioned the cohort.


  “‘Tis,” he replied, “Come see, I tell you!”

  Adara still did not move. The man did not see her sword she had covered with her dress. She pretended to cry.

  The Englishman laughed as he, without fear, reached under the bush to physically draw her out to take what he figured was his right and she was determined not to give.

  He laughed right up until the very instant he felt the sting in his gut just below his chest armor. He had the face of surprise. His mind reeled to know the reason for his faintness as Adara looking into his searching eyes twisted the blade and pushed it deeper. He tried to call out a warning to his friend but his breath was indeed taken.

  She withdrew the blade and moved away from her spot as the big man began toppling toward her in his death faint. She could hear the hoof sounds of his friend coming closer and she stood to face her second Englishman wanting to take her.

  The man came to the bush and saw the dead man with Adara standing close hiding her bloody sword in the pleats of her skirt.

  “What happened to him?” he asked narrowing his accusing eyes.

  “Don’t know, Milord,” she said pretending to weep again, “Arrow-shot, reckons me.”

  The cohort got from his horse to see better in the grayed light.

  Adara held her place.

  The man bent over to get a better view. “Don’t see an arrow,” he said as Adara rammed her sword through his lower gut as well.

  He raised up screaming to the top of his voice and her sword hit him across the nose gushing blood.

  She then took to her heels wishing for complete darkness but that was not to come as the nearly full moon on the clear summer’s night came up from the eastern horizon to equally replace that which was fading in the west.

  “Who’s that a’comin’?” asked William Lindsay manning the northern barricade.

  “Too dark to tell!” answered his brother David.

  Earl George stood tall and shouted to the rider, “Halt!!”

  The man immediately pulled his reins back bringing his horse to a sudden stop.

  “Must be one of our spies,” opined William.

  George walked out to meet the man.

  “Moray’s man, Milord,” he said when George got close.

  “Where’d he send ye?” asked George.

  “Was a’watchin’ the valley north,” said the scout.

  “And what?” asked George.

  “They’re a’comin’,” said the scout, “and they ain’t far behind me, neither.”

  “How many?”

  “No tellin’ Milord,” he replied.

  “Get behind the barricade and help us fight here,” ordered George then walking further away from the camp to get a first look as his attackers. He soon realized that for the lack of light he could not possibly know more and returned to his men saying to William Lindsay, “Fix to have a’plenty on us!”

  William smiled. “Reckon we stirred up bad shit, Milord,” he said tending toward sarcasm.

  George understood his meaning, smiled slightly. “Stinkin’ like it,” he replied then ordered Lindsay to get his spearmen close to the barricade with the archers back to be the first to counter attack when the riders came over the rise of the hill.

  “How many volleys, Milord?” asked William.

  “‘Til they’re out of arrows,” came back George. “Knights and men-at-arms lastly.”

  “Aye, Milord,” returned William setting off to organize his men according to the earl’s order.

  George could hear the battles raging to his left and downhill. He could not help but wonder how his friends were faring against the English. He hoped he could have a quick victory on his side of the field so his nearly seven hundred men could be applied to the other arenas of the overall battle. It was a prayer made in a hollow reality and deep in his heart he knew it.

  He turned back to his immediate task as the men were organizing according to his plan. He put John’s spy out beyond the awaiting battle to blow his horn in a certain way to warn them of the impending attack he knew would play out on the ground before them.

  Hotspur was in the front of his battle wedge and moving forward with each step having to give back only one for every three that drove the Scots tighter to the wattle of their own making.

  There were plenty of dead men underfoot for the English to have to wade through and step over. The ground was becoming slick in spots by the spilled blood of those most ambitious to be recognized by their superiors. Then there were those who were just simply less talented at war.

  The youthful squire Thomas Waltham was one of those who had much talent, strength and endurance to take advantage of others with whom he was fighting. He stood beside his liege lord matching him stroke for stroke against the Scottish heads.

  The English had worked their way through the thin ranks of the spearmen and were then fighting the stronger and better fitted men-at-arms mixed in with John Dunbar and various Scottish knights. Their encumbrances on three sides by the English hemmed them to a small bit of ground from which they had no good retreat.

  The men of Sir James Douglas were gathered at the top of the low ridge on the east side of Blakeman’s Law. He had the strongest knights and men-at-arms in his contingent. The trees alone were sufficient cover to allow the success of the flanking ruse but the lack of light certainly added as well.

  Douglas led his men down the easy north side of the ridge and along the bottom toward the ongoing skirmish led by John Dunbar.

  From her newly acquired hiding bush Adara saw a gathered lot of Redman’s men who were on the inside edge of the wood watching Earl George organizing his men for the expected attack from the northern side by Umfraville. He had no idea there were renegade Redman troops plotting to hit him from the west.

  Thomas Waltham broke clear of encumbering men-at-arms and headed deep into the ranks of the Scots. He recognized the arms on John Dunbar’s surcoat from Newcastle and fought the Scots heading directly for the earl with the desire of beating the man into surrender and taking him as a ransom prisoner.

  John was fighting an English knight when Waltham’s intruding sword flashed in front of the two men and Waltham gave the English fighter a shout which was enough to let him know to pick another with whom to war.

  John had not retrieved his helm nor any other. He flew into the impertinent youth with the fury of a long-spurred cock. Their swords clanged hard against one another as the more experienced Dunbar pushed him back away from where the English stood strong.

  “You baseborn bastard!” yelped Waltham when he realized how Dunbar was manipulating him.

  John smiled a bit and backed him deeper through the crowd of Scottish warriors with Thomas Waltham exchanging clanging sword strokes on bucklers with him all the way until they were fighting close to the wattle barrier. It was there that John decided to excel and with a series of quick strokes he had knocked the sword from Waltham’s hand and had him on the ground with his gauntlet in the air as his sign of surrender.

  “Hope yer Hotspur is as easy to win over,” said John without a bit of humor.

  Thomas Waltham dropped his hand knowing he had been beaten. “My Hotspur will pay for me, I’m sure,” he said weakly.

  There were Scottish spearmen on the far side of the wattle as John pulled him to his feet declaring, “Ye are my ransom prisoner. Swear ye’ll not run off or I’ll run ye through dead… right now!”

  Waltham was not only beaten but also exhausted. He had spent his hate energy on his initial attacks and then nothing... so it was without prideful clarity for him to utter the words, “I swear.”

  John leaned him over the low retainer fence and two spearmen pulled him the rest of the way then walked him to where the growing group of hunkered English prisoners taken on the various raids knew little of what was going on around them in the relative darkness.

  Thomas Waltham was of little help in bringing them any useful news as he laid out on the ground and involuntarily passed into sleep.

>   Because the Scots had trained to various scenarios John Dunbar knew James Douglas was about to break through Hotspur’s right flank. “Douglas!! – Douglas!!” he yelled as loud as he could hoping to create a diversion for Douglas’ ‘grand’ entrance.

  Other men there fighting picked up the slogan and added to the repetitive chant.

  The English countered with their own loud, “Percy!! – Percy!!”

  From the right flank Douglas knew John’s purpose as he came to the edge of the covering copse. He gave the order to his standard bearer, Davy Coleville, to unfurl his quartered banner.

  Douglas anxiously waited while the nervous lad twisted the staff. He at last got the cloth into the air.

  Douglas war cried with, “Douglas!! – Douglas!!” and his men followed the war cries as they swarmed Hotspur’s right flank.

  Hotspur had had the advantage up to that point. He was expecting a surprise but had no thought as to anything of substance. He and his fighting men were at a complete shock. Suddenly he had two fronts that were attacking him and he wondered where Redman and Ogle were in the scheme of surrounding Douglas’ backside.

  Hotspur’s spearmen turned to meet the new threat emerging out of the wood. The height of the moon in relation to the treetops shadowed much of the available light in that lower part of the land.

  The madding mix of war cries heavily added to the darkened battlefield as the armies clashed head on from every direction.

  Earl George heard the distinct hunting horn blast from his advanced guard.

  The army of Lord Thomas Umfraville knew they were expected just as much as Earl George knew they were coming.

  “Ready archers!” commanded George as he strained his eyes for the shadow army to top the crest.

  The archers placed all of their arrows upright in the dirt before them except the ones they nocked in their bowstrings.

  They were ready.

  Adara saw the men in the wood fidgeting for action and knew it was time for her to be brave.

  The English ready to ambuscade George heard only a rustle in the bush behind them then a vague silhouette crossing the field going toward the north barricade fast saying in a loud not yelling voice, “Milord, Milord!”