Games of Otterburn 1388 (12 page)

Two of Robert’s knights rode up.

He tied the rope onto the latch of the door and handed the other end to one of the knights.

“Pull,” he instructed.

The one wrapped the rope end around the saddlebow and kicked his horse to pull at the door.

The door creaked.

“
A’right
!
A’right
!” said the inmate, “I
be
a’comin
’ out!”

The three could hear the bar being knocked from its holding arms.

“Ye two finished yer
raidin
’?” asked Robert looking over the small town.

“Hain’t much to raid, Milord,” answered the one who threw the rope to the ground.
“Too many
a’ready
who like
a’killin
’.”

An old man poked his head out of the door. “What you
a’wantin
’?” he asked as if he wasn’t well aware of the reasons for the intrusion.

Money, yer life or yer horses,” said Robert measuredly.

“Take the horses. Ain’t got no coin,” said the man.

“Come from the doorway, old smith,” said Robert.

“Can’t,” said the man.

Robert turned to his knights. “Bring me fire,” he instructed.

The outward swinging door slowly creaked open. The head of a ten year old lad looked out below the arm of the old man who held his sword as menacingly as he could manage the rusted blade.

The screaming and hooting of the raid along the street continued.

Robert was unimpressed. “Looks like a smith
ought’a
have a better kept sword. That’s what happens when ye don’t wipe the blood from it,” he said and he stepped forward and with his gloved hand gripped the reddish blade. The smith, knowing it was hopeless, released the shabby rotten leather handle.

“Can ye make caltrops?” asked Robert.

“Can, Milord,” admitted the man.

The large eyes of the lad watched Robert’s every move.

“Ye teach that to yer child?”

“He knows
nothin
’ of caltrops, Milord.

“Ye’ll be
a’makin
’ me thirty… and at yer end the lad will know.”

“And ye’ll be
a’lettin
’ us live?” asked the old man, tears welling in his eyes.

“I want to know where the horses from the fair are kept,” said Robert getting close to the man’s face.

The man sputtered a bit not knowing how to answer.

Robert glared and the smith knew he had best answer.

“In a pinfold south,” he said pointing in the direction.

Robert smiled. He turned to his knights. “Take twenty or so and bring back the horses.” He mimicked the point of the smith.

“Ye’ll be
a’needin
’
mor’n
twenty, Milord,” offered the smith.

The old man could see his neighbors hieing up the steep embankment toward the castle.

Robert turned to see what so fascinated the smith. “Be back in two days. Have the caltrops fixed in a gunny sack so they don’t poke the horse when they’re carried,” instructed the Earl as he climbed onto his destrier.

The Stewart came to his liege lord.

“Save this smithy… burn the rest,” ordered Robert.
“
Gi’e
me half the men to go up the hill!”

“Aye, Milord,” answered the noble.

Within the half hour the town was ablaze and Robert and his men were sitting beyond arrow reach in from Caesar’s Tower.

Fifty-five year old Baron Roger Clifford stood at the top of the four story keep and looked down on his would be attackers. He had archers at every crenellation and more to take their place if they were to fall. But seeing the Earl of Fife’s small force he was not overly concerned.

The smoke from the burning village wafted uphill and, by intention, the castle was aware of the Scot’s potential for destruction.

The villagers, who were escaping the burning buildings, realized they were trapped between the village and the castle so they hid as best they could in the sparse bush along the bluff.

“I am Robert de Stewart, Earl of Fife, and we’ll burn this castle, Castle Brougham, Castle
Pendragon
, and Castle
Brough
to the ground!” shouted Robert up to the lord.

“Shit! You ain’t
a’gonn’a
go all the way down to
Pendragon
and I know it!” crowed Clifford.

“Will if ye don’t pay!” growled Robert. “Got men all o’er these parts
a’reivin
’ and
killin
’.”

“We’re safe locked here!” replied Clifford snobbishly. “What do you want me to pay, Scotch?”

“Two thousand pounds
sterlin
’ for a year of peace for all four of yer castles,” said Robert loudly.

“You can’t mean that! What do I have worth two thousand pounds?”

“Spent more than that just
fixin
’
Brough
year last,” rationalized Robert.

“You can’t know my
spendin
’,” argued Roger strongly.

“Be
takin
’ half that in horse this day,” came back Robert changing the argument point.

Clifford ignored Robert’s point and wanted to get in another point of his own.

“I’ve heard tell stories of your great
uncle
Edward
raidin
’ through
Eden
Valley
a’burnin
’ and
killin
’ ere he went to
Ireland
and got his goddamned head lopped off!” shouted Clifford. “And my grandfather was killed by your grandfather at the Second Battle for
Stirlin
’, too… so you can pretty well figure I have a hate for the
Bruces
a-n-d
the Stewarts!” He shook both fists to be easily seen by the men below and grit his teeth when he screamed those words into the air.

Robert shook his head knowing he had pricked his pride. “Here for ancient history, I’m not. Just the coin or I’ll be
a’killin
’
e’ery
citizen and
burnin
’
e’ery
castle I can lay hand to within yer bailiwick!”

Clifford’s seneschal of the garrison pointed toward the fair grounds.
Raidin
’ the horses, they truly are… not just talk!” he shouted in panic.

Robert smiled upon hearing the words and tone. “We can be back at the first part of June when yer horse
tradin
’ is at the fullest.”

Clifford paused to think… but he thought and anguished too long to suit Robert.

“The price is three thousand pounds for one year now…” he announced and sarcastically adding, “Milord” to his
say
.

“I’ve not got that amount here?” pleaded Clifford with his brows pushed up in the middle.

“It stands at three thousand now… pray I don’t alter it to four thousand and that will be yer last offer for the safety of yer four castles,” barked Fife meaningfully.

Clifford panicked. The man had not laid finger to his person yet his spine then quivered at the sound of his voice.

“Three thousand, Milord?!” he asked halfheartedly.

Robert smiled. “Send it out by yer seneschal,” he ordered. “I know ye won’t want to risk
gettin
’ taken’ for ransom!”

Clifford glanced to the fair grounds at his beautiful, carefully managed, livestock being carried off by heathen and wished he had a better army. That, however, would cost more that three thousand to maintain for very long. “I’ll have it sacked up directly,” said Clifford. He and his seneschal left the battlements of the tower and went below to count out coin enough to please the Scottish earl.

“If I ever get the chance I will personally cut that man’s head from his shoulders,” swore Clifford growling through every word.

“Pay the coin, Milord,” advised the seneschal. “You’ll make more that that by far... come spring.”

“Through the parsimonious fingers of the baron laird the coins were angrily thrown into six bags. The seneschal cinched the burlap bags up and tied them two by two by two.

“You don’t need to make it easier for them,” gripped Clifford standing over the servant.

The seneschal said nothing but the word that passed through his mind was,
Idiot!

He stood with both hands hanging two sacks each and they were heavy. “May we get three large men to do the
carryin
’, Milord?”

Clifford grumped but from the floor he took the remaining two sacks in his own hands and led the way to the front gate of the tower house.

A guard at the gate raised the heavy bar and Clifford slowly opened the gate. From across a goodly expanse of tall weeds stood
Fife
’s men who were waiting for their money to be delivered.

Roger Clifford became faint hearted and went back behind the gates.

“Change your mind, Milord?” asked the annoyed seneschal.

Without a word Clifford handed his load to the gate guard and opened the gate to let his two men go into the open field to deliver gold and silver valued at about three thousand pounds sterling.

“Your coin Milord,” said the seneschal politely.

Fife
nodded soberly.

None of my
doin’s
, Milord,” he added as an odd apology for the conduct of his liege lord.

“I understand,” said Robert letting the seneschal off the hook for Baron Clifford’s behavior.

Three of Robert’s knights moved forward enough to indicate the sacks were to be handed over to them. As the delivery was made and strapped securely to the haunches of the knight’s destriers the group rode off.

Clifford had returned to the tower top and as they left he cursed the Scots until they were out of sight then he went to his solar where his regularly beaten wife, Maude, was once more beaten.
 
He then threw her onto the stone floor and raped her with every bit of anger he could muster while thinking of his lost gold.

He then threw himself onto his bed and within a few minutes was snoring loudly.

She laid
spraddled
, mostly naked, and motionless on the floor. Her body ached in familiar pain and she swore under her breath that she would butcher him in his sleep soon but she had been swearing that for years and she dreaded she would lose to faint heart yet again.