Games of Otterburn 1388 (25 page)

There was never an actual number count but it was obviously a Scottish victory.
  

August 16 - Late Afternoon

Scot’s Gap – Northumberland

“Milord?” asked James. “Ye reckon that spy I caught at Southdean went to heaven or hell when his throat was cut?”

Sir John Swinton turned to his young squire in wonder. “What do
ye
know of heaven or hell?”

“I hear things
bein
’ told by monks and such that bad people burn in the fires of hell for a long time if the Holy Angels turn them out.”

John sighed then asked, “Which of these animals ye
reckon’s
goin
’ to heaven and which to hell?” He waved his arm in the direction of the walking animals.

Young James shrugged his shoulders as he looked over the stretched out herd of cattle, oxen, sheep, goats and pigs being driven over the undulating hills in Northumberland.

“Pigs and such don’t be
goin
’ to heaven or hell, Milord,” opined James emphatically.

“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.