Games of Otterburn 1388 (33 page)

As a calculated beckoning arm,
Douglas
took Hotspur’s lance
pole
and placed it point down in the mud in the center of the field where Hotspur had lost it. The pennon he hung on his saddlebow and patted it fondly hoping Hotspur would be true to his word and come to repossess it before he got to
Scotland
.

Long before any light was in the sky the Scots were completely gone as if they had never been there except for the trampled field, the pennonless lance pole and the braggadocios and dazed spy who had been supinely staked to the ground in plain view, arms out and legs spread with a blindfold over his eyes.

August 18 - Before Dawn

-Pointeland-

Seven Miles from
Newcastle

The spark was struck with flint and steel catching the tender then small whittled stripes of kindling were added to build the fire bigger. Visually the flame was intense in the predawn night as the Scots archers one by one stepped into the ambience of the flame and placed the lamp-oil soaked rag-tipped arrows into the fledgling flame just long enough to catch it afire.

One by one they went to the clearing overlooking the sleeping
village
of
Pointeland
whose castle sat on higher ground beyond the houses and out buildings.

One by one they released their deadly fiery missiles toward the thatched roofs of the houses while James Douglas gave the order to start the cacophonic din of their hunting horns from his thousand men.

Within moments the sky was lit as bright as day with the fast kindled thatch that even the recent rains failed to protect. The villeins were certainly alerted and quickly took to their heels in a blathering magma of confusion.

Atop the tower wall the guards saw the town seeming to spontaneously come to fire in an instant swoop. They saw the people running amok and the horns setting up a fearful racket.

“Awaken the lord!” screamed the warden of the guard to a close by sentry who quickly ran down the stone steps and entered the top level of the tower house. He hammered on Sir
Aymer’s
wooden door hard and was not shy with screaming, “Lord, Lord, Awaken My Lord. Something terrible is happening in the town!”

“Within seconds the door flew open and Sir Aymer de Athol, dressed in nothing more than his quickly donned long nightshirt and sleeping cap with its untied strings dangling on his
shoulders,
appeared at the door.

“Town’s afire, Milord!” spat the sentry.

“Be to the battlements momentarily,” he said excitedly then added as a secondary thought. “Ring the bell to wake up the rest of the castle.”

Within minutes Sir Aymer was overlooking the disaster.

“Who you reckon it is, Milord?” asked the startled warden of the garrison called Gilbert.
 

“Scotch, they are,” said the laird. “Scotch from
Newcastle
bound for hell… I imagine!”

“Looks to be they brought hell with them, Milord,” he replied as they both watched the flames growing high above the house roofs.

The flying embers that raced on the updraft reached the height of the five story tower parapet.

“What you reckon they want?” asked the Sir Gilbert.

“Me,” answered the laird soberly.

“We have no way to counter them, Milord,” said the warden. “There must be just too many for our small garrison.”

“Must be,” he agreed, “but we really don’t know how many there are in that blackness.”

Archers and spearmen came quickly to the parapet level but there was nothing for them to do except feel the searing heat and watch the destruction of the town below.

“Be in the solar,” said Sir Aymer forlornly.

The warden thought him a sad figure of a man in his long sleep shirt and cap trudging toward the stone block steps to his private quarters to get dressed and prepare for the long journey to
Scotland
he knew was inevitable.

The laird sent word to his stable groom in the bailey to saddle his horse.

He put what gold and silver he had in a pouch belted around his waist and called for Gilbert.

“Milord, you sent for me?” asked Gilbert on his arrival. His focus was driven by the small window of thick glass on the outside wall to Sir
Aymer’s
back as it looked as if it was afire itself in contrast to the few lighted candles around the solar room.

Sir Aymer took his sword from his bed and handed it to Sir Gilbert in the nearly vein hope he could retrieve it after his ransom was paid. “If you never again see me on this earth the sword is yours,” pledged Aymer solemnly.

Sir Aymer had been the liege lord of Sir Gilbert for a number of years and his loyalty was beyond reproach. “I need for you to do for our folk what I would do if I were able,” he said handing about fifty pounds sterling silver to him. “There will be nothing here but burnt out walls and no village… but the land abides and feeds.”

“Gilbert bowed as he accepted the pouch of coins. “I hope I am worthy,” said Gilbert sadly.

“No need for sad
singin
’ and slow
walkin
’,” advised the laird. “‘Tis time for rare deeds and true joy!”

Gilbert raised his head, smiled and
gird
the sword about his waist.

“That’s the spirit, my son!” he said proudly. “
Nothin
’ lasts forever… and yet it does.”

Gilbert could only nod as he choked back tears welling in his eyes.

“Come with me, Sir Gilbert,” said his liege. “I want you to get the inmates from the castle out the postern gate and into the wood.”

“I will, Milord,” said Gilbert walking fast to keep up.

“Take care of our villeins,” he added. “Some are old and don’t get along very well any more,”

“Yes, Milord.
I will… I swear,” he said.

“Take care what you swear to, my son, for you may have to live up to your word,” said Aymer as he exited the tower door and went into the bailey.

“Milord,” greeted the groom holding the reins of the saddled horse in his hands. The horse was high spirited and fearful of the close flames. “They may very well kill you on sight, Milord,” he said handing over the reins.

“Doubt that,” said Aymer. “I will be gone for a while, though.”

Sir Aymer mounted his chestnut colored horse with Sir Gilbert by his side. “Remember all that I said,” commanded Aymer.

“I will, Milord,” said the warden with tears welling again in his eyes.

“You have much to do, my friend,” spoke the laird solemnly. “I will return and rebuild what will be taken from us this night.”

The inmates instinctively poured from the tower house and gathered in the bailey. They had whatever they could gather in a hurry wrapped in bundles of blankets and other clothing tight in their arms.

“We will stand faithful, Milord,” said the Sir Gilbert.

“Open the front gate for me and leave it open. You go quickly out the back!”

The once doughty knight Aymer de Athol kicked his horse and sauntered out through the rows of still burning houses to meet the men who were bent on destroying his world.

August 18 - Early Morning

Carlisle
Countryside

The morning was so dank that every piece of clothing anyone had about them was soaked through to the skin. The gray sky seemed to have no better report on a day of dryness as it appeared to be, at any moment, prepared to weep more rain on the land.

“Stay with the
killin
’ of those who want to fight,” ordered Archibald from the saddle as the fifteen hundred men were spread out across the top of a low ridge peering across the shallow glen of farms and a tiny village.

“‘Tis time for yer revenge!” cried out Archibald with passion.

The
warriors
war whooped at that statement.
    

Archibald waved both arms to either side of him giving the signal to his men for them to swoop down and raid the whole valley at once so that the people had no chance of hiding their worldly possessions.

Archibald and his son William sat their horses as the major portion of their warriors bypassed them and descended into the valley. They fractured into small groups and spread out wide.

The two
Douglas
leaders, surrounded by a core contingent of their own elite knights, squires, and mounted men-at-arms casually sallied from their position with their own planned objectives in mind.

“Hope the sun comes out,” said Archibald pulling his wet britches from what he imagined to be waterlogged ‘wrinkled skin’ on his upper leg.

“More like than not its
goin
’
to rain,” pessimistically offered William glancing across the grayness of the sky.

Archibald scowled at William and kicked his destrier to a faster gait.

William laughed at his father’s scowl and kicked his horse to catch up. “Ye know the weather
is
the weather, don’t ye?”

“I know that,” admitted Archibald. “Don’t mean I
gotta
like such!”

“Don’t mean,” agreed William smiling.

Osbert and his fifteen year old son sat at the base of large trees on the edge of the copse watching the small contingent of Scots investigating their burned house. With them the reavers had a herd of about twenty head of kine and a few scrawny horses.