Games of Otterburn 1388 (27 page)

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.

“Scotch at our gates this morn?” asked Lord Neville.

“Still where they were,” replied William.

A flagon of ale and two cups were placed on the table by a young page, him saying, “Milord.”

Neville nodded.

“One of my men thinks there’s dead on the south field, Milord.”

“Dead?” queried Neville taking the flagon and pouring the cups to the brim.

“Too dark when I left to tell anything ‘bout what’s out there,” came back William.

“Maybe it’s Scotch
sneakin
’ up on
us
this morn?” Neville snickered.

William obsequiously snickered, too and took a long gulp of his ale.

“Want bacon and bread?” asked Neville.

“‘
Twould
be well, Milord,” said William.

Lord Neville raised his hand to motion his page to the table and when he arrived Neville pointed just enough to have the page say, “Milord,” and run to the kitchen to see to his master’s bid.

Neville cut a bit of his pig off and pulling a hunk of the bread away from the
loaf,
wrapped the meat and took a good sized bite saying, “
Figurin
’ to go out on the Scotch today.”

William was taken aback but tried to hide the feeling.

His shudder was not lost on Neville. “What do you think?”

“Milord,” was the first word from William’s mouth. It was the next words he was having trouble getting from his mind into the air.

Neville’s eyebrow arched in the absence of words.

“Milord,” started William again.

“You have already given me your opinion on that part,” snidely put Neville. “What do you think about going after the Scotch again today?”

“Milord… We got no warden of the garrison to lead the attack,” he answered clearly with the faint impression he was about to be told of an unwanted promotion.

“I think that will not be a challenge,” said Neville.

“You be
a’leadin
’ the men to the field today, Milord,” blurted William as a trencher of his food was placed before him by the attending page.

“No.” said Neville coolly.
“‘
Twas
thinkin
’ more to
makin
’ you the new warden of the garrison, Sir William.”

“Me!” he again blurted with feigned surprise.

“I figure you could run those bastards back to where they belong,”

William breathed hard. “You know there’s more than twice the Scotch out yonder than there was yesterday morn and the reason you got so far then was because you sneaked up on them!”

Neville opened his surprised mouth so wide his half chewed bacon and bread fell back onto his trencher.

William was saved from Ralph Neville’s manipulation only by a young messenger who came to his ear and gave him the message he had little thought he would receive.

The messenger withdrew and William peered at his untouched breakfast and took a long deep breath.

“Bad news?” asked Neville without really caring.

“Our dead from yesterday are
a’layin
’ on the south field, Milord,” he glumly said as he stood from his bench and started to leave then turned back to pluck his loaf and bacon from the trencher, bowed a bit then sarcastically added “The garrison ain’t too awful ready to sally out again this morn…
Milord.”

He left the hall with no more to say.

“Ye got some with gangrene, Milord,” advised Lucy when she came to Lord Archibald Douglas who was sitting his horse beside Lord Robert Stewart.

She shaded her eyes to see up at the earl.

“Can ye fix it?”

“Not likely all but maybe save some, I can… God
willin
’,” she answered.

“Do best ye can,” said Archibald. “I’ll be gone for a day or so. Tell
Fife
here of any need ye might have while I’m gone.”

“Aye, Milord,” she said and looked at Earl Robert and then addressing him, “Milord.”

Robert nodded back with no emotion.

“Those English want their dead… don’t let them have them,” demanded Archibald.

“
Be
a’stinkin
’ ere long,” was Robert’s opinion.
 

“Don’t care…
hiein
’ out directly, I am,” said Archibald.

“I’ll keep good vigil on yer bloody dead,” said Robert. “If ye run into that Clifford bunch don’t be
givin
’ them any bargain of doubt.”

“Bargain of doubt?” asked Archibald.

“Don’t be
a’trustin
’ any of ‘
em
,” flew back Robert frowning.

Archibald laughed. “I
nae
give a shit for ye not
wantin
’ to give Clifford some ransom money back.”

Robert smiled broadly and rode off without another word.

Archibald smiled slightly and shook his head in disbelief then wheeled his destrier toward the larger part of
Carlisle
and
Cumberland
where there were plenty of rich crofts and villages that were willing to pay handsomely to be left to their own peace.

August 17 - Morning

Newcastle-upon-Tyne

Mungan eyes flickered a bit. He did not want to come from his misty world of jumbled dreamy images but somewhere deep his lust for waking life was fished from his languishing self and he realized he was asleep and forced his eyes open to the light.

It was beginning to rain on his supine face.

He sort of tried to snort. The cloth stuffed in his nose did not allow for air to pass. He then sucked in hard through his mouth for a lungful of fresh air. He briefly questioned if he was still alive.

“Ye awake,” asked Adara sitting at his side.

Mungan tried snorting again. He got to one elbow and looked around the field. “How long?” he grunted.

“Since yesterday,” she said sounding perky.

“Can’t
breath
,” he muttered fingering the cloth ribbons in his nose and thinking he had to piss.

“Don’t be
a’pullin
’ those rags out,” she scolded.

Seeing three horse-backed knights on the field he asked, “What’s
fixin
’ to happen?”

“Those knights are
readyin
’ to fight a war,” she answered. “
A’ready
been
one like this and the English won it.”

The gates of the town walls opened and three English knights sallied out. Cheers from the fully populated wall filled the far air.

Mungan forced himself to his knees. He seemed to be coming back a bit from his weariness.

“
There’s
others all bone-weary and
layin
’ about, too,” mentioned Adara trying to make him feel better.

“I ne’er was weary like this,” he groaned as he progressed to one knee on the ground and one
akimbo
knee in the air.

“The Lord Douglas came by and asked if ye were dead and I told him ye weren’t,” said Adara casually.

Mungan grunted as he got to his feet.

“I think my Simon was washed away,” said Adara in about the same level of casualness. “I ne’er found him when I went to look in the moat water.”

Mungan didn’t care about Simon and so wandered off without a word in response. The rain felt good on his still sleeping face. He was thinking to jump into the river and wash the blood from his torn clothes. Only the furry animal hide parts of his clothing were not torn in some manner or another and they were stinking.

When he returned to Adara he looked out on the field of tourney. The six knights were working hard against each other with hammer and sword. Mungan could tell it was not going to last long.

One of the young Scots fell from his horse and came down into the gathering mud.

Then it was three against the two and that lasted about five more sword strikes and parries before the second Scot fell.

The crowd from the wall cheered.

The third Scottish knight’s blood ran red. His comrades on the muddy silage field drew their hand axes and rushed for the three English still mounted.

Cheers from both sides were rousingly renewed as one of the Scots struck one of the knight’s destriers in the neck. The horse dropped to its knees and the English knight rolled onto the ground.

The other two English were certainly not expecting such a maneuver in a tourney and one was stunned just long enough to be on the losing end of a hefty sword stroke slung in anger across the side of his helm that unhorsed him.