Games of Otterburn 1388 (26 page)

 
George paused a moment staring at Douglas and wondering whether he should express his inner feelings without a shred of proof or even another’s opinion but before he talked himself out of his notion he blurted it out, “I think
ye’re
enjoyin
’
pinchin
’ the nose of the great Hotspur!”

Douglas
laughed.

George did not but sat solemn leaving
Douglas
wordless.

George thought to add to his blurt, “Who, for some unknown reason, won’t come out and challenge ye direct.”

“His little brother challenged me,” said
Douglas
just before he ducked his head under the water rubbing his fingers through his hair.

He soon bobbed back to the surface with a gasp.

“But ye refused his challenge,” said George. “Hell, I
would’a
taken him on… but
ye
wanted Hotspur.”

“I reckon,” said James pulling himself from the water by handfuls of the tough grasses along the bank. He turned and sat beside his comrade to air dry in the last sun of the day. “I reckon I do want to see how I would fare against Hotspur just for the sport of it.”

“So ye want to sit about here ‘til we got no men left?” sarcastically asked George seemingly more distraught than before.

Douglas
gave a disarming smile. “Tell
ye
what, my friend...”

George looked at James with a dour face not knowing what to expect.

“We’ll see tomorrow if I can coax dear Henry ‘
Hotspur’
from his aerie… and if I cannot we’ll hie for Otterburn first light on day next.”

George nodded in agreement and was pleased to understand that there was a plan in the mind of his commander that made some sense even though he knew he would not have strategized the events in the same manner.

Inside the castle Hotspur was purely livid. His knuckles were bloody raw from beating his fists against the stone wall from where he watched the mêlée sham fight, even though he had heavy leather gloves on for protection.

He sat in a large, well cushioned, chair rubbing salve on his smarting fingers.

His brother Ralph sat fuming across the round tapestry rug from him.

Neither of them wanted to spout into the air that which was eating them alive in their heads and in their hearts.

“I have a plan,” started Ralph at last.

Hotspur glared at his brother disbelieving he dare have another plan. “I think ye’d best keep yer plan to yerself, brother,” he advised in an uncomfortable and even threatening voice.

Ralph’s lips moved almost imperceptible as he gritted his teeth but controlled his bitter anger for Hotspur’s attitude.

Hotspur seethed more for the English loss of the day.

Ralph seethed more for his hand being stayed by his brother.

“Hope they’re gone on the morrow,” muttered Hotspur.

“Hope they’re still here,” said Ralph in opposition.

Henry looked again at his rebelling brother. “Still figure to get your gauntlet picked up by
Douglas
?”

“What’s left for me if not that?” said Ralph.

Hotspur went silent and brooding again.

Ralph stood and left him to his gloomy stupor thinking to find allies in other parts of the castle who had some influence over brother Hotspur and would, at least, give an ear to his next day’s plan.

The south side of the wall at
Newcastle
abutted the edge of the
Tyne
River
. The water flowed through the moat carrying the waste and sewage of the town’s inhabitants to the regular stream of the
Tyne
.

There were piers jutting into the water all along the river bank against the wall and beyond that welcomed quite a large variety of commercial water borne craft from
Europe
and even the
Mediterranean Sea
.

From the stern of a particularly long ship with a flat shaped stern sat an old man fishing with his net and dangling his booted feet over the side. He had about ten good sized fish lying near his water soaked britches that he had netted and clubbed to death as he brought them aboard.

The light of the day was getting short and the old man was well satisfied with his day’s catch despite the happenings on the west side of the wall and so decided to make a last cast of his net for the day.

When he gave his net a quick tug it felt as if he had snagged a whale. He pulled as hard as he could manage.

“Help me get this one in and I’ll be
a’givin
’ you half it,” he generously offered a close mate.

The man jumped at the opportunity and climbing aboard the boat and up onto the stern deck the old man handed him a portion of the net lines. He took a good grip and both of the men pulled hard on the ropes.

“Ain’t
strugglin
’ none!” said the old man’s companion.

“Damned big tree branch, I reckon,” said the old man in frustration.
“Just
tearin
’ up my good best net!
Damn you branch!!” he cried out in anger. “Damn you!”

“
Cursin
’ ain’t likely to be of much help,” advised his friend. “You
gotta
get it up and clear the net.”

“You help?” asked the old man then knowing he had nothing more to bargain with than the fish that were wetting his behind. “Give you half these fish here,” he offered.

The younger man nodded at the offer and renewed his enthusiasm for getting the net out of the water.

The two men pulled until the net broke the surface of the water.

They looked to see their unwanted catch.

“What you reckon?” said the old man looking into the dark water.

The second man
laid
down on the deck and leaned his head overboard to get a better look.

He suddenly
raised
up as far as his arms could manage and peered desperately at the old man saying, “You’ve caught yourself a
dead man
.”

“You mean a real
dead
man?”

“The one the lord hanged off the wall… I saw it yesterday,” explained the man. “Still got the
hangin
’ rope tied ‘round his neck and he’s all bloated, too.”

The old man was quiet with disbelief. His catch for the day had been good but now it was tainted, he thought. “‘Tis tainted, all,” he said aloud in a repulsed tone.
“My good, best net.
All tainted.”

“You
tellin
’ the wharf warden?” asked the younger man.

“Ain’t
tellin
’
nobody
I got such sad fortune as to have caught an evil dead man,” he replied. He then stood with water from his wet britches dripping into his tops of his boots and dropped his portion of the lines into the water. “You can have all the fish. Net to if you have a mind,” he conceded. He glumly turned, got from the ship and walked down the pier and through the open sally port into the town thinking a cup or two of ale would be a good medicine for his confused head.

The young man, still holding to his portion of the net lines, let them loose to fall easily into the water. He watched as the dark ‘net-wrapped’ form floated aimlessly on the slow currents of the
Tyne
and disappeared into the blackness of the night.

He looked down at the fish on the deck the old man had caught with the same net and wondered about the nature of ghosts of the recent departed and evil spirits.

He sighed deeply and was seemingly anguished. He kicked the dead fish back into the water and followed the old man down the pier and out the sally port hoping no wicked spirits had attached themselves to his valuable soul, as he feared.

August 17 - Dawn

Carlisle

‘
Twas
again dawn on the surrounding field at Castle Carlisle. One day earlier had witnessed the terribly eventful death day for not only the English troops but for the Scottish troops as well for which there still was no accounting.

The herbwyfe, Lucy, who had arrived with the slower traveling contingent of pack mules and enough warriors to protect it, was awake already attending the wounded in the light fog. She had prepared a poultice for their wounds and treated every Scot who was presented to her during the course of yesterday.

She stooped beside a young man of no more than fifteen years. His wounds were a slash across the face and nose and a lesser strike on his belly. But for his battle won chain mail coif covering his head and shoulders his wounds would have been much worse if not deadly.

“Ye
a’right
?” she asked from her stoop while carefully peeling the poultice pack away from his face cut.

“I’m
a’right
,” replied the lad weakly.

She replaced the poultice and retied the knot to the strip of cloth that held the pack in place and smiled gently as she looked the man in his eyes. “Where’s yer home?”

“Middle part of
Galloway
,” he said then began to seize in his belly a bit. “Vassal of Lord Archibald, I am,” he added.

“Ye awake when they attacked yesterday morn?” she asked more for personal interest than that of being a physician.

“
Sleepin
’ yon,” he said pointing toward the castle. “First one hit,” he admitted. “Odd
awakenin
’, I figure.” He smiled.

Lucy lifted his shirt to see to his belly slash. She peeled back the poor smelling poultice patch to an even worse smell and turning blue around the actual wound. “I’ll have to fix another mixture,” she said. “
This’n’s
got a touch of the gangrene.”

“Ye sure… I
nae
feel no pain where it’s cut,” he remarked lifting his head and trying to see his midsection.

“Be back directly,” she promised as she stood from her hunker and moved on to another patient.