Games of Otterburn 1388 (38 page)

“He can have his back when he returns my dapple,” added Henry.

“Yes, Milord,” replied the groom again then hesitated for a moment to see if there would be more instruction.

“Be gone with you!” spat the earl narrowing his eyes.

Soon the steward guided Roger to the stable where Henry still stood admiring the waddling geese as they made their way from one eating venue to another in an endless repetition of activity. He thought one would do well for his supper.

“Your man, Milord,” said the steward with Roger in close tow.

“I’m
givin
’ you a fresh horse. The best in my stable,” said Henry, “I want you to read this message, even know it by heart because if it is lost you will need to tell my son what was written.”

“Milord, I cannot read,” admitted Roger.

Henry drew it back and looked at the man hard then pushed the message into the air before the steward saying, “Read it to him!”

As the steward read the message once again out loud the dapple stallion was brought to the fore, the reins in the hand of the walking groom.

Roger heard the words and was handed the parchment. He folded it and placed it into his leather pouch as he approached his new ride he took the reins from the groom’s hand and patted the horse on its jaw.

“This will be your most important ride. Go by the lowlands where there is no roadway. When you come to the
Tyne
you will know
Newcastle
is close by.”

“Milord,” said Roger as he climbed into his familiar saddle. “I am off!”

Henry stood back as Roger kicked his fresh ride out of the bailey gate through the village and south along the coast toward
Newcastle
.

There rides fate if I ever witnessed it afore,
thought Henry watching him disappear into the distance.

The route to
Newcastle
was somewhere around fifteen miles and Roger was expecting to easily be in
Newcastle
before night fall. He turned toward Pointeland village to use it as a landmark and when he got closer he noticed the thin strand of smoke coming from where he thought Pointeland stood.

“Who ye reckon that is?” said one of the two Scottish scouts sitting their horses under the cover of tree limbs at a higher elevation than where Roger was riding.

“English messenger,” said the second scout noticing the pouch over his shoulder and moving in sync with the rider’s bobbing rump.

The two scouts looked at each other.

“Yer the better shot,” said the one, “take it.”

The second man got from his horse and unfastened his bow from the saddle-strap. He withdrew an arrow from his quiver and had it nocked by the time he got to the open edge of the wood.

Roger saw the Scot emerge from the trees and kicked the dapple stallion hard and lowered his body as close to the horse’s neck as he could get it.

The archer was not disturbed by the fast running horse, He drew the heel of his right hand back to the hollow of his cheek with his left on the bow handle and fully extended. He aimed ahead of the rider and loosed his grey-goose barb.

While it was traveling the archer got another arrow from his quiver and had it nocked and ready by the time the first arrow missed the target.

He loosed his second as the rider whipped the horse and got further away.

He reached for a third arrow and nocked it then paused seeming to guide the second arrow to its mark by shear will.

It struck the dapple deep in the upper neck. The horse rose up high on its hind legs at the shock of being hit, throwing Roger hard onto the ground.

The horse bucked and writhed to get the stinging arrow from his neck as blood was spurting and slinging in every direction. In the throes of his dieing fit he trampled Roger who was out cold and did no more than grunt as the breath was knocked from his lungs.

“Ye got him,” exclaimed the second scout coming to the archer.

“Aye, I got him,” agreed the archer.

 
Holding out the reins to the archer’s horse he added, “Let’s get the pouch.”

 
The pair rode to the scene where the dapple horse was on the ground and almost dead from loss of blood. His fearful eyes were looking at the Scots as they got from their horses to retrieve the pouch.

“He’s ‘bout dead same as his horse,” said the first scout lifting the man’s arm and threading it through the pouch loop.

“Ye
killin
’ him for sure?” asked the second.

“Just want the pouch,” he replied pulling the strap over the top of his head. He reached over the man and picked up the hat with the long cock feather and put it on his own head.

“What if he comes to himself?” asked the archer.

“Worst case if he lives is that he’s lost his hat,” replied the first. “I’ll take the pouch to Lord Douglas.”

“I’ll stay here and keep an eye out,” said the archer retrieving his arrow from the dead horse’s neck and slinging the blood off the head he put it back into his quiver.

“Yer other one’s back a bit,” said the first.

“I ken where it is,” he said then added as he realized the lateness of the day. “Ye just as soon stay the night here and get on at first light.”

August 18 - Afternoon

Blakeman’s Law

Near
Otterburn
Village

The sun was midway in the western sky when Douglas and his army came into the low gently undulant hills of Blakeman’s Law. The thousand horsemen had been traveling the thirty-one miles from
Newcastle
since before day break stopping only once to burn the town and
castle
of
Pointeland
and capture their single prisoner.

James Douglas had dispatched spies along the trail from
Newcastle
to Otterburn as they traveled. The spies were armed with only daggers and bows with arrows and rode the swiftest horses available within the ranks of his men and were to be his alarm system when, and if, Hotspur followed.

It had been the task of Sir Alexander Ramsey to survey the landscape around the
Village
of
Otterburn
and to choose the site that best embodied the requirements of James Douglas to create a defensive position and a venue from which the herd of hoofed plunder could be taken care of satisfactorily.

Sir Alexander Ramsey was quite aware of the approach of the earl and his contingent. The out-flanking scouts had been reporting to him of the column’s progress since before
noon
so he and Sir John Halliburton went down the road to personally welcome Earl James Douglas to their temporary fortress.

As the contingent moved through the Otterburn village
Douglas
asked, “The tower house?”

“‘Tis where the population of the whole village has resided since yesterday, Milord.”

“What ye reckon they’re
protectin
’,” asked
Douglas
.

“
Nae
more than
their own
skins, I would imagine,” opined Ramsey casually.

Douglas
pulled the reins of his destrier to the right and sallied toward the tower.

He noted it was a square structure of stone set close to the water on the back side and in the midst of bog land on the left and right. There were bearded faces peering from the few small narrow windows and archers on the crenellated ramparts cautiously eyeing the passing army.

Alexander sidled to
Douglas
.

“How many in there?” asked
Douglas
holding his eyes on the
tower.

“
Nae
notion, Milord,” said Alexander scratching his beard.

Douglas
saw the line of silent archers standing tall on the parapet. “‘Ppear to be ready for a fight, they do,” he said hoping they would not pull their bows back and loose them in his direction for he was well within range and a large enough target to be easily hit by any archer of even mediocre talent.

“How ye reckon their
feedin
’ a whole village for even a day?” pushed
Douglas
.

“Does not matter,” said Ramsey, “We know where their kine
has
been hidden.”

Douglas
turned to Ramsey, “How so?”

“We have a spy, Milord,” explained Ramsey keeping his voice low. “He knows,” he remarked as he pointed to the far copse.

Douglas
nodded to indicate he was pleased with how Ramsey had handled the situation thus far.

Douglas
wheeled to leave.

Ramsey followed noticing the line of Scottish archers with nocked arrows at the ready in case the men at the top of the tower let loose on them.

They came to the first of the interlaced fencing across the road. It was built with stout upstanding branches and smaller diameter, more easily bendable lateral branches, woven back and forth through the stouter ones. The fencing used deep rooted trees along the route that made for additional stability.

Beyond the fencing across the road was the camp for those who cared for the animals. It was fenced off with a lighter style fencing in the crook of the River Rede.

Ramsey was explaining this to Douglas and George as they rode around the bottom end of the fence and started up the broad hillock.

“Here the fencing comes up the hill to be on this side of that wooded area and it stops on the far end,” further explained Ramsey pointing his hand in the various directions as his talk progressed.

Douglas
nodded his approval as they went.