Games of Otterburn 1388 (43 page)

“I don’t know anything at all!” interjected the boy of twelve.

Deeper in the wood there was the faint sound of a cow bellowing. John held the palm of his hand behind his ear and mockingly smiled then looked at the boy.

The young picket knew his use to his captors had suddenly become negligible and his determined puffed chest of defiance sank. He felt he had led the whole community to ruin.

“Get the others and bring them in the same way we came,” said John. “I’ll wait here for
ye
.”

The knight left and was back shortly leading the warriors through the narrow path.

John was aboard his horse with his guide sitting in front of him. “Which way,
laddie
?” he asked.

“‘
Tain’t
a task now,” admitted the boy. “Just follow the path.”

The contingent moved closer to an open area and the lad could not help but let out a cry of warning, “Scotch are here!!” he screamed and was so close it sent shock waves up the spines of the tending villagers who jumped immediately to their feet in complete disarray.

“Hold still!” demanded John as he unsheathed his dagger and holding it up put his other arm around the neck of his captive to keep any of the villagers from acting in haste.

It seemed to have worked since all of the men in that immediate open circle seemed to have frozen in place.

One man stood out as spokesperson and bluntly asked, “You come to kill us?”

“We’ve come to reive yer livestock,” he said flatly. “We have no revenge for yer blood unless ye attack one of ours.”

“Cattle are in the pasture land on the other side of the trees,” grumped the oldest man of the group.

John pointed at the first six of his men he laid eyes on and said, “Ye take one of these men to show the way and get the kine.”

The oldest Englishman stood and put a gnarled crutch under his arm and volunteered.

“I want another,” said John curtly.
“A younger man.”

“Ye got your arm around that one’s throat,” suggested the self styled spokesmen pointing to the captured lad.

“Ye know where the herd is?” John asked the boy.

He shook his head in the affirmative.

“
A’right
show us the best way… but know that if I hear a yelp, all ye are dead!” warned John.

The boy pointed across the bare circle to a path. “Go yon,” he said knowing the lives of his family and others would be forfeited if he acted wrongly.

Circumstances changed Sir John’s mind as he led the six men through the bush to where the cattle were kept from sight.

“Cows have a mind of their own, you know,” said the lad.

“How’s the best way from this place with the kine?” asked John.

“Only one good way,” said the boy, “and that’s back the way we came.”

One of John’s men tied a length of hemp rope around the horns of one of the animals and started back on the path.

Three other men got to the rear of the herd and rode back and forth to get the rest of the animals moving to follow the designated leader. Pretty soon they had the herd following the leader to the far side of the copse and back on to open ground.

John set the young man down from his saddle with and oddly advising him to practice more on his archery.

The youth frowned with puzzlement as he watched the Scots herd the cattle away across the grain fields and the relatively shallow river. He returned to the herders’ camp.

“They all gone?” asked the oldest man who was the first to see the lad come back.

“Surely gone, they are…” he said, “with all our cattle,” he breathed out hard still thinking he had let the community down.

The volunteer leader of the people then gave out loud whistles through his teeth which served as the signal to the many townspeople, who had fled from the
Otterburn
Tower
and were hiding throughout the hefty
underbrush, that
it was safe to return to the clearing.

“Scotch gone?” asked the first woman to come in.

“Took the herd of cattle and left,” answered the leader.

“Thank God they did not take you as prisoners,” she said gleefully.

“Don’t figure we’d make good
payin
’ ransoms, I reckon,” answered the leader who was happy because he was not wealthy and considered that his good luck, at least for that one single moment in his life.

John Dunbar and his men took the animals back on the opposite side of the river to swell the herd kept in the loop of the river Rede.

They left again toward the north to see what more fat beeves they could reive to bring home to
Scotland
.

They were due back before sundown.

August 19 - Afternoon

Newcastle-on-Tyne

The peasants had returned to their various tasks in the growing fields around the town walls. The first of those tasks being to rework the several acres of lands the Scots had fouled while they were ensconced at the West Gate.

It was Walter Skirlaw, the Bishop of Durham, who was welcomed through that same gate amid cheers from the obligatory throngs of the
Newcastle
citizenry.

Aboard his horse, Sheriff Thomas de Boynton stayed back from the bishop. The sheriff’s official message to Hotspur had been that they were amassing some six thousand men-at-arms including archers but in truth there were less than three thousand men in the bishop’s company and they were hoping to be bolstered by Hotspur’s combined troops.

It was Mayor Buckham of
Newcastle
, who bowed low to his famous neighbor to the south as a castle groom took the bridle of his horse close to its mouth to steady and control the animal.

A young page from the castle guard placed a step box below the bishop’s stirruped right foot.

With the crowds still cheering Skirlaw laboriously swung his left leg over the rump of the horse landing it on the top of the box. Still holding the saddlebow he got his right foot unencumbered from the stirrup and stood wobbly before the crowd. He smiled weakly then took the two steps of the box to the stone paved ground.

Still reeling and a bit sore from the twelve mile ride from
Durham
he said to the mayor, “I expected Sir Henry to welcome me.”

“I am sorry to disappoint you, Your Grace, but the duty fell to me since the town is devoid of any high ranking military nobles,” plainly spoke the deflated mayor.

Walter was taken aback for the moment. He blinked his eyes wondering if he had misunderstood then he came out with the salient question, “Were we not to meet here and go after the Scotchman James Douglas together?”

“Personally, I know of no such definite plan,” said the mayor then added with an air of sarcasm, “Sir Henry shares little of his ruminations with us since we, the town’s governors, merely keep the cogs of the town’s commerce in motion, Your Grace.”

The bishop breathed deeply hoping the air would clear his muddled mind.

Although the mayor was aggravated with the bishop he decided to extend a touch of graciousness to him and so offered in vague terms, “Lord Henry, his brother Sir Ralph and all the mighty military men within the town left this morn, so I understand…
Your
Grace.”

Skirlaw nodded as if he understood but he did not and so asked, “Did he leave any message for me?”

“Not to my knowledge, Your Grace,” replied Buckham wondering just how travel weary his guest was.

Among the many sects of monks having places of lodging within the town a Black friar emerged from the gathered multitude and bowed low before the bishop. He asked permission to speak to which, when given, offered the bishop a nearby place to rest. The bishop graciously accepted while his army cooled their heels on the same ground the Scots had occupied during their stay there.

Skirlaw, speaking to Buckham, ordered a supper be prepared for his hungry troops and he then disappeared at the elbow of the excited and blathering monk.

Boynton got from his saddle and walked his worn horse as he followed the bishop for whom he had adopted an odd sense of responsibility. He feared the bishop’s spiritual power would turn and bite him one day. He hoped that God would have mercy when his time came to give over his ghost.

Adam Buckham was far from happy about having to provide supper for the warriors after the huge army of Hotspur’s men had ‘invaded’ his town so all he could manage to say was, “More misery heaped on the town’s treasury!” which he did manage to keep from the ears of the others.

The monk’s offering to the bishop was a smaller chamber by far than his accustomed trappings but it was relatively clean and neat. The bishop straightway
laid
supine on the austere pallet and was thankful for the opportunity. As he was not accustomed to horse riding of late, his crotch hurt and he was anxiously fretting over continuing his journey. He thought of using the pillow beneath his head to place between his soreness and the hard leather of the saddle. He then imagined rolling off his horse because of it and abandoned the notion.

Thomas de Boynton sat in a nearby chair prepared to do his bid. The quandary of mind was equally shared between the two men.

“Might as well go back to
Durham
, Your Grace,” said Boynton after a long while of silence.

The quiet continued and he paid closer attention to the breathing and determined the bishop was not contemplating an answer to his question but fast asleep.

He sat still a while more.

Pots of gruel were carried to the field for the men to eat. Some were thankful and many just ate it anyway.

Out on the silage field there was a knight from Hardlepool, located near the coast,
who
must have guessed the mission and sallied through the open gate to ask his own questions. The throng and cheers had dissipated into the usual events of an ordinary day. Holding his destrier by the reins he walked the streets of the town watching the various craftsmen work. He noticed a friendly enough man sitting atop a wooden cask eating an apple.

“You one of those from
Durham
?” asked the man as he chewed.

“Came with the bishop, I did,” was the reply. “Do you know where Lord Hotspur has gone?”