Games of Otterburn 1388 (40 page)

Roger was sitting
on his own
and hurting badly in his ribs when Gilbert leaned to him asking, “Who are you?”

“A messenger from Northumberland
takin
’ a parchment to Hotspur in
Newcastle
,” he laboriously choked out.

“You ain’t got a pouch, son,” said the younger old man. “We were the first ones here, I figure! ‘
Twern’t
no pouch.”

“Then you… must get me… to Hotspur!” said Roger in as forceful a voice as he could manage.

“You can’t go,” advised the warden, “You’re mostly dead
a’ready
.”

“Can we have your dead horse to eat?” asked the other old man.

“‘
Twas
the property of the earl’s,” he said weakly. “Eat as you must.”

Gilbert having presumed certain responsibilities for the region since the lord of the castle had been taken as a ransom captive of the
Douglas
,
gave the people permission to eat the once beautiful dapple stallion.

At his vantage point on the higher ground the Scottish scout watched the proceedings. He was surprised Roger was not dead but he was not concerned that he was alive. The pouch meant to be planed in the hands of Hotspur had left for Otterburn hours earlier and that was what he considered important. He backed his mount deeper into the overgrowth figuring to not be discovered.

Gilbert had a pole litter rigged so Roger could be hand carried to the roadway in front of the burned out castle and village of Pointeland then he was transferred onto a one-horse wain to painfully travel the seven miles to the West Gate of Newcastle.

In the meantime, inside the
Newcastle
town walls, within the solar of the castle, Hotspur was brooding over his wounded pride with no comprehension of surrounding events that were inadvertently controlling him.

Brother Ralph knocked on the heavy door and Hotspur reluctantly gave him permission to enter. Surrounding his chair where he sat all night were the shards of broken wine glasses, with the residue of wine dried to the shards.

“What do you want?” asked Hotspur as Ralph entered.

“
Seein
’ to your health, brother,” he answered

“
Passin
’ perfect, I am,” said Henry draining his glass and throwing it at Ralph who dodged the pelting by stepping behind the still open door. Ralph quietly returned to his position when a dutiful half dressed serving wench came from the shadows of the room and filled another glass with wine. Ralph knew she was there for more than serving wine.

“You drunk?” asked Ralph.

“
Havin
’ a rare glimpse of clarity,” said Hotspur sarcastically.

“Bishop Skirlaw will be here today,” advised Ralph.

“Is he
goin
’ to
release
us from the king’s command to not lay a finger on
Douglas or Fife
,” Hotspur spouted in a dramatic manner waving his arms for emphasis, “‘til he and Arundel arrive in all their glory to save our
puny
arses?”

“Our king is in deep trouble of his own, brother,” said Ralph. “I don’t think it matters a whet his orders. ‘Tis Bolingbroke and his ilk
holdin
’ the whip in
London
… so I hear. ”

“Seen men be separated head and body for less talk than that,” pushed Hotspur.

Ralph shifted the subject, “Spies you sent out yesterday afternoon are back.
Douglas
went to Otterburn and is holed up there.”

“But where is
Fife
!?” yelped Hotspur half standing toward Ralph from his comfortable chair.

“There is a mostly dead messenger brought in from Pointeland,” said Ralph moving closer to his brother, glass crunching beneath his boots, “Says he has a message for you from father in Warkworth.”

“You talk to him?”

“Won’t talk to anybody but you and he looks like he’s not about to last too much longer,” said Ralph persuadingly. “He did say he was given our father’s dapple and it was arrowshot and killed.”

“Our father gave him the dapple?” asked Hotspur releasing the glass of wine on the table and sitting up straight in the chair.

“That was what I thought, too,” said Ralph.

“Bring this man here immediately!” demanded Hotspur.

“He’s in the great hall,” explained Ralph, “and I think
we need to go to him
.”

Roger did manage to relay his message to Hotspur and Ralph before he blissfully died.

Hotspur’s eyes widened and he wished he had not consumed so much wine but his anger was not impeded as it flashed fire in his soul and brought fresh muscle to his limbs.

“What part of day is this?!” he asked with teeth gritted.

“
Mornin
’,” answered Ralph.

“Get Ogle and Redman and Eure and all of them that have horse and be ready to ride from here as soon as they can possibly be set!” growled Hotspur. “I’m
goin
’ to take my pennon back off his dead body and cut him in pieces!”

“And the king’s demand?” baited Ralph.

“To hell with Richard!
We’re
goin
’ to Otterburn and then on to
Carlisle
!” cursed Hotspur without hesitation. Men sitting and standing close by bore witness but Hotspur did not care. Revenge was hot on his heart and mind and nothing more mattered.

“Where’s my squire!” yelled Hotspur loudly. “Fetch my armor and sword we’re off to kill Scotch!”

The frustrated English warriors who were standing nearby cheered and Hotspur knew he had all the power he needed to sanctify his actions! He held his hands high over his head in a victory stance and the hall cheered more.

“Get to your armor and to your horses men and we’ll have our swords well bloodied before the sun sets on this day!” he swore in a high pitched mixture of euphoria and anger.

Hotspur sent a message to Lord Thomas Umfraville in Harbottle that there would be one more need for his gathering army and be ready.

By mid morning Hotspur led his sizable army out from West Gate across the silage field and onto the treacherous road toward Otterburn as
Douglas
had taken.

Hotspur then knew Fife was not with Douglas and so figured his three thousand knights and men-at-arms was plenty enough to take Douglas’ contingent of what he estimated to be no more than a thousand
ortwo
to task.

He did not wait for Bishop Skirlaw to arrive at
Newcastle
with however many men-at-arms he was able to gather up from
Durham
.

Hotspur was, at last, able to see a good possibility his sworn oath could be realized, that his pennon would be retrieved before it ever crossed the northern border of
England
into
Scotland
.

August 19 - Morning

Environs of Pointeland

Sir Gilbert rode his horse watching the trail on the slightly higher elevation where Roger’s dapple mount was killed by a single arrow. Six of his men from the castle garrison rode spread out on both sides of him also watching the trail.

“Yon he is,” said the rider immediately to Gilbert’s right pointing across the man’s horse to the edge of the copse that overlooked the road.

The Scottish scout was hunkered at the forefeet of his horse as he chewed on a piece of dried meat and kept his eyes as far down the road toward
Newcastle
as he could. His bow and quiver of arrows hung from his saddle bow.

Gilbert thought for a moment deciding how best to capture the man who was obviously waiting for something to happen.

Lacking a better plan he gave the silent signal to spread out in the spy’s direction and rush him as fast as he could.

The Scot was alarmed by the sudden whooping to get the nine English horses animated and jumped on his horse fast making a good sounding whooping noise of his own.

The race was on. If the Scot could outrace Gilbert and his men he could alert the next awaiting scout up the line and if he could not, he would be killed. With that in mind he rode like the wind in a great storm and was putting distance between him and Gilbert’s men when his horse hit too much of an uneven patch in the roadway and stumbled throwing the Scot over the head of the horse as it broke its neck in the hard fall.

The Scottish scout, dizzy from his splay of arms and legs, managed to retrieve his bow and quiver as the Englishmen were baring down on his position.

He ran fast toward the wood where he thought he could survive.

Gilbert realized he could not catch up to the Scot by riding him down through the brambles and had no chance of getting him on foot so he lined his archers up along the edge of the road beside the dead horse and loosed arrows in the direction of the fast running man.

Luck sometimes pays and so it did as one of the loosed missiles found its mark in the runner’s lower back. The shock of the strike stopped his run. He saw the iron head of the shaft exiting his belly. He crouched below the bush line and tugged hard on the shaft to pull it all the way through. Another moment of tears and agony it came out missing two of the three feathers.

Thinking the Scot was fallen dead Gilbert’s men made no quick steps to get to him but were more to sauntering through the uncomfortable bushy terrain gathering their wayward arrows as they went. They were half way across to him when the man they thought was dead jumped to his feet, holding his belly wound with one hand and his weapons in his other, again ran straight for the wood.

When Gilbert got to where the Scot had pulled the arrow through and saw it was missing two feathers he knew the man was already dead but had just refused to lay down.

“What you reckon he was
a’waitin
’ on, Milord,” asked one of the men.

“If
guessin
’ was called for,” offered Gilbert, “
says
I… it would be that the army from
Newcastle
is
headin
’ this way and he was the Scotch
warnin
’ man.”