When George left to fetch his men Swinton looked at Ramsey and the wordless question was mutually agreed upon. They both crossed the waist-high wattle together and their twenty men did not hesitate to follow.
Hotspur found he no longer was able to take forward steps but in fact was pushed backward by the press of his own men surrounding him which was mirrored by his spurts of enthusiasm countered by his lethargic moments. Yet within those highs and lows he persevered killing and maiming as many as came to him to try their fortune at capturing perhaps the grandest ransom prize on the whole field.
Douglas’ Chaplain, Richard Lundie, picked up his lord’s banner high still chanting his slogan and supposedly following him into the heaviest part of the English knights and men-at-arms. He was, however, soon separated from Douglas and the others being swept along on a tide of war crying Scots who thought him to be the Douglas himself.
The swath of the swing of Douglas’ axe was easily twelve feet across and he worked his efficient weapon in a most deadly manner swinging it from the far right around to the far left and back again taking full advantage of the sharp double head.
Squires Davy and Simon stayed close to James Douglas keeping directly behind him while brave others followed less closely in his heroic wake battling all those who would want to stop the devastating human war machine from behind as it moved through the English ranks at an unbelievable pace.
The pace was perhaps too much for the isolated group of no more than twenty-five who were being whittled away from the rear. One after another they were cut down as each was attacked by several English men-at-arms at once.
More of the Scottish knights and warriors lost their lives to English steel while James Douglas was wholly unaware of the devastation of his support behind him. He did not change his fervor and his great axe did not abate its bloody journey.
Every Englishman in the darkened vicinity wanted to stop the terrible axe for the sake of self preservation but none had the thought to capture Douglas for in his haste he failed to put on his surcoat that bore the sacred arms of his person and served to protect him from unnecessary killing blows for the sake of a ransom.
It was a clever yeoman whose head had felt the swift air of the swinging axe blade close who realized he could go under the swing as it was on the far side of him and land a debilitating blow to the man’s left armorless thigh. No one paid attention when he squatted and waited for the axe to take its turn far to Douglas’ right and then rushed upon the unprotected leg with his indelicate spear.
James Douglas was shocked to a standstill.
His full body began to quake.
The great bloody axe was loosed to the air amid a cheer by those English who were close by.
Douglas went down to a knee.
He was hit again between the unfastened rivets of his chest armor. That spear went deep into his belly.
He thrust his head upright and back while the next cruel spear strike came from behind into his shoulder forcing him forward again.
He gasped but he did not yell out.
Davy Coleville realized his lord had been struck down and was on one knee and pointlessly placed his own body over Douglas to protect him.
Simon Glendowyn stood alone to fight off the concentrated horde bent on completely destroying the only active member left of the team that had wrought such havoc onto the English side.
Simon’s sword was all he had as a weapon and he whipped it in every direction that he saw a blade coming to him.
Wound after wound he endured.
A man with a battleaxe moved in to put Douglas fully to the ground as he, for all his deep gaping wounds, grimaced against fate and was forcing himself to stand again.
Davy moved to defend his liege lord with his sword and was the first to taste the hard steel of the axe on his neck then it was others that dragged him off Douglas in the opposite direction to stab him through the heart leaving the “axe-man” free to take his killing blow on the helmless head of the mighty James Douglas who most unwillingly sank dead to the bloody ground.
Young Simon fell at the feet of his beloved leader with twenty-one wound strikes pouring his life upon the grass.
None on the field knew whom they had killed and so had no qualms about trampling over the Scottish warriors as they filled in the void Douglas and his others had paid dearly to create.
Had the night been day the heroic deed would have been recognized for what it was and the remainder of his brave army would have spread the void to a decisive victory, then and there, but the battle was fought in the pale light of a near full moon of another’s choosing and so played out as best it could have been from both encumbered sides of the conflict.
Mungan had been fighting near Douglas when the moonlight reappeared. He was mystified as to where Douglas had gone when he turned in every direction to see.
He espied his true liege lord, Earl John of Moray, not far from his position and thought it best to join him if there was to be any organization to the fight from there out. He heard the cheer of the English but had no notion it meant the death of their commander, Douglas.
It was then Sir Ralph Percy who got too deep into the lines of the Scots and when he was gored in the lower belly by the Scottish knight Sir Henry Preston he realized his debilitating wound was more that he could bear he said loudly, “My greaves and hosen are soaked with blood. I yield so that your surgeon can attend me!”
“Lower yer banner, young Percy and I will tend to yer wants,” replied Preston sternly.
Ralph, who was bending from the waist and holding himself tight with his gauntleted hands, turned to his squires, two, and told them to help him off the field while he indicated to his bearer of the banner to lower the staff and follow. At the same moment he recognized his small contingent of fighters had melted back through the Scots fighters and he supposed rejoined the English side once again to make more mischief for the Scots to deal with.
“Make way for a prisoner!” yelled Preston as he moved through the ranks of warriors waiting their turn at the fight between the front lines and the wattle border.
The men made a path through the crowd and cheered when they recognized Sir Ralph’s furled banner dragging his rear.
Preston made his way toward John Dunbar’s banner and presented his prisoner to the earl. “Sir Ralph Percy is yielding, Milord,” announced Preston.
John looked at the man and seeing the gash of blood weeping from his lower belly made the remark, “I can see why… Get him to our surgeon right away ere he bleeds to death, Henry,” ordered John then added, “Ye have well earned yer spurs this day!”
Henry Preston smiled then turned to take his four prisoners up the hill where the surgeon and his minions were in a constant fit for saving the lives of those struck to bloody wounds.
On his way up he saw the men of Earl George cutting the wattle between a half dozen of the standing trees. He went around the Earl’s eight hundred men to get to the surgeon’s tent and grounds. They had to walk with care due to so many wounded laying about awaiting the single surgeon’s attention. An herbwyfe was his most prized help. Then there were twenty more who moved at his bid, but they were little more than handlers. Adara was there to help as she could since she had had some experience at midwifery. She had treated her own flesh wound and was patching up others as she knew how.
The moon came to the western sky shining brightly with little threat of another rogue cloud disturbing the defiant destinies of those several thousands gripped in combat of the first water.
In the midst of the battlefield there had developed an odd languishing malaise among the combatants where neither faction gained nor lost ground but stood staunchly rugged killing each other as if it were a routine task.
The English were flagging from their exhaustion while the Scots had too few men to make the final push to get the English to turn in chaos.
The Earl of March had been studying out the battlefield and had figured a plan to break the back of H
otspur’s army.
He saw his brother’s banner and pushed his way through the tight fitting crowd of warriors until he came to John.
“Seen Douglas?” he asked.
“Not lately,” answered John. “His banner, I’ve seen here ‘bouts,”
“I figure him for dead, John,” opined George.
“Then it’s yer command now, says I,” replied John solemnly.
George reached out and touched Mungan on the shoulder and gave his first order, “Find who bears the banner of Douglas and bring it to me… as I stand here.”
Mungan was surprised he was chosen for the honor but then again he was one of only a few who was standing within arm’s reach of the Earl. “Aye, Milord,” he answered without hesitation and headed in the direction he last saw the banner wave.
Asking others as he moved through the battling men he at last came upon Douglas’ Chaplin who sat flat on the ground bleeding with a leg wound but still holding the banner straight up.
Mungan took one look and even in the ashen light he realized the man could not carry the banner any further. He told the sitting man the banner was requested by the Earl of March and it was handed over without question but with the warning, “I fear our lord Douglas is watching us play this one out from heaven.”
Mungan did not know how to respond to the man of the church and so took the banner in silence and repaired to where the earl was standing.
“Milord,” he said as he held the banner out toward the earl.
“Ye hold it,” ordered George. “Start the slogan chant.”
“Chant, Milord?” asked Mungan not understanding the terms.
“Ye ken, Douglas!! – Douglas!!” he shouted loudly.
Mungan nodded and picked up the chant bouncing the banner in time with the chanting, “Douglas!! – Douglas!!”
Before long the whole of the Scottish army was picking it up and with great passion.
Suddenly March disappeared.
John warned those close including Mungan to be ready.
From behind Mungan’s position was heard a great blast of hunting horns as the whole of George’s army poured through the trees where the wattle was cut away and began a press of the warriors in front of them who were encouraged by Earl George to move ahead.
Enthusiasm is a catching thing and the Scots moved forward. The ones in front of them were pressed and they moved strongly ahead as well until the dividing line betwixt Scots and English, as fluidly wobbly as it was, crushed the distance needed to conduct tight hand-to-hand fighting. The English were pushed back to where they could not swing their swords while being bombarded by, “Douglas!! – Douglas!!” that got louder and louder with every determined step the Scots made progress into English held ground.
The moon calmly watched as it traversed the night sky from east to west.
Along the edge of the press and at that moment Sir Henry ‘Hotspur’ Percy was exchanging sword blows with Sir John Montgomery of Eglesham. The two men were fighting for their very lives but both had been fighting for their very lives for all the night and so it was told that it was Hotspur who, wanting to be rid of Sir John in trade for a moment’s respite, took a foolish and awkward swing against Montgomery hoping to end the combat in a single sword stroke and was thrown off balance by his own thrust. He fell to his armored knees breathing hard. He knew his whole person was vulnerable and he cared not as he was well worn to that state of mind.
John Montgomery raised his sword for a possible last strike. It hung in mid stroke.
Hotspur cried out in a raspy deep voice that ached for moisture, “I yield!”
“Ye’ve got ye the ‘Hotspur’, Milord,” said an excited warrior standing behind Montgomery. “That’s goin’ to be a real thing to be a’tellin’ my children about some day!”
“So we do… have Lord Hotspur,” he replied tingeing his words with a bit of hard earned sarcasm. Montgomery picked Sir Henry up by the arms and from the wardens fingers, still tightly locked around the handle, he wrenched the heavy broadsword.
“Water?’ he rasped out.
Montgomery gladly pulled his own skin of water from his girdle and handed it to his most wonderful prize for the ransoming.
Hotspur’s men were pushed too far back to be able to help him in any manner.
August 20 - After Midnight
Along the RedeRiver
It had been George Dunbar, the Earl of March who, after Umfraville abandoned the fight during the earlier part of the evening, sent two scouts after them to see to their disposition and direction.
The earl was concerned about whether they were going to attack them again from another direction, repair to Harbottle or, as he strongly suspected, head toward Carlisle to relieve Lord Ralph Neville from Archibald Douglas and Robert Stewart’s overwhelming superiority.
The scouts followed Umfraville’s sizable army out of the Otter Valley and down the River Rede where soon enough they saw them making a camp without fear of detection.
“‘Ppear to be headin’ for Carlisle,” said John as the two watched from a higher elevation.
“Don’t figure them for comin’ back to the battle,” said Samuel getting off his saddle. “Let’s watch for a while.”
“Ye watch,” I’m goin’ back to tell March what’s goin’ on,” replied John.
“Ye a’comin’ back?” asked Samuel.
“Back at dawn,” said John, “If I can manage.”
“If I have to move on, leave trail marks for ye to follow, I will,” came back Samuel confidently.
John wheeled his horse and began the five mile backtrack to Blakeman’s Law not knowing what conditions he would find there. The moon became his only companion as he muttered his thoughts into the semi darkness.
He crossed the River Rede close to the battle site and when he reached the copse of Greenchesters he immediately ran into Sir Matthew’s horsed troops making sport of running down barefooted men and lads with sword strikes along their necks and shoulders.
John’s eyes remained sharp as he realized his best way to get across the wood to where he last saw Earl George was on foot. He tethered his small nimble horse to a tree branch and made his way to the open spaces of the warrior’s camp on Blakeman’s Law where he began his ferreting out of the earl.
John was suddenly clapped on the shoulder. “Thought I sent ye on an errand?” said the commanding voice.
John turned to see Earl George staring down at him. “Ye did, Milord. Here to report, I am,” said John trying to sound older than his years.
“Where’d they go then?” asked George bluntly.
“Camped down the Rede not far from where it joins with the Tyne,” he reported.
“‘Ppears they’re headin’ for Carlisle?” asked the earl.
“‘Ppears so but they’re not that far gone to tell for sure, Milord,” replied the lad.
“Where’s yer friend?” asked George.
“Watchin’ their camp, Milord.”
“Ye go back and watch with him,” explained George, “and when ye can tell if they’re headin’ that way or not ye must get to Carlisle and tell either Sir Robert Stewart or Sir Archibald Douglas that they will be hard set upon by Thomas Umfraville with a large body of men, ye got that?”
“Aye, Milord,” said John hoping he could remember the details of the names.
“That means ye must get to Carlisle ere Umfraville does!” insisted George.
“Aye. Milord,” snapped back John, “I ken yer say, Milord.”
It was at that point that John Swinton came toward George to join the main battle to get Hotspur’s army on the run.
“Get to yer chore, laddie,” said George giving John a friendly pat on the back then turned to speak to Swinton.
John left to follow his own trail once more. He was hungry and thought to get a bite of victuals for Samuel and himself. Knowing the servant’s camp had such stores he went down the gentle slope to where he thought dried meat was being stored.
The tent he remembered that had been filled with such stores of food was ripped to shreds and he suddenly was aware the voices around him were from English tongues and many of them slurring their words at that.
He crouched in the darkness and unsheathed his dagger when the grayed light became black. John sat motionless in near darkness listening. The raging battle behind him had become a conflict of silence. There were still English drunkards in every direction nattering their senseless words.
He looked at the sky and the moon was gone. He saw no edge to the cloud that covered it.
He felt around in the grass where the tent had been for sacks of whatever food he could find and snatched up the first rough-cloth pouch his fingers touched. He unfastened the strap and smelled. “Roots,” he muttered derisively to himself.
He went on hands and knees to find more of the scattered victuals. He felt another sack and smelled it without opening it. More roots, he decided.
Two of the English speaking soldiers wandered close and John froze. As soon as they got beyond his position he took the sacks of turnips and made his way across the road to where, even over the smell of the roots, he could smell horses. He knew he was not going to be able to get back to his own horse and was ready to find another he would have to ride bareback.
His nose served him well since within forty paces he was among the horses and destriers of the Scottish army.
As he felt along the withers of the animals and checked if they had bridles or not he softly spoke in a calming voice to keep them docile.
“Ye a Scot?” came a nearby voice.
John again froze.
“Ye a Scot?” the voice asked again.
“Aye,” admitted John not at all sure how his answer was going to immediately impact him.
“My name’s James,” said the voice, “Lord Swinton’s squire.
John eased in his manner replying, “I’m John. I need a horse for a venture I must do for the Earl of March.”
“Can’t ride in the pure dark,” advised James.
“Can ye get me a goodly horse for scoutin’?” asked John still blind to whom he was talking.
Games of Otterburn 1388 Page 27