Games of Otterburn 1388 (29 page)

“Seems to be a right fancy plan if yer
askin
’ me.”

Sir John sometimes wondered about his squire. He was curious to a fault and his social manners failed to be considered exemplary.

The scout that was sent south toward
Newcastle
was certainly quick to return with his news. He rode hard into the town square, such as it was not much of a square shape but it had various vendor stalls and buildings along the street and at the end was the town hall where the burgesses were arguing over how best to protect themselves from the Scottish incursion. The scout went in the door of the hall and announced, “Scotch
a’comin
’ with a great herd of plundered animals!!”

“From where?” asked the chief burgess as he leapt from his soft chair.

“Saw them past Elsdon, Milord
burgess
,” said the winded young man. “Be here ere long!”

The chief’s eyes opened wide as his mind reeled in complications.

The other burgesses in the hall began to panic.

“No time for a town
meetin
’ now!!” shrieked the fifth burgess.

“Send runners to the fields to get the farmers… tell them to bring their families!

“And weapons!” added the second burgess.

“Spread the word to the folks to gather in the peel!” said the third.

The scout moved quickly to avoid being crushed by the burgesses as they fled out of the hall to get to their homes to gather their wives, children and whatever valuables they might be able to carry.

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.

“
Douglas
a’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.