Games of Otterburn 1388 (39 page)

Ramsey noticed the oncoming army was backing up at the roadway fence.

“Ye can direct yer men to set up camp here,” said Ramsey as he turned his horse to the rear pointing to an already active campsite.

“I’ll take care of that,” volunteered George wheeling his destrier and returning back down the hill to advise their men.

“I want more green brush in front of the fence as it goes across the road,” instructed
Douglas
.

“Aye, Milord,” answered Ramsey understanding the need immediately. “Is there more?”

“Only that for now,” replied
Douglas
. “Are there other ways into this area?”

“Beyond the River yon…” he said as he again pointed, “is the old
Roman Road
which is called
Dere
Street
.”

Douglas
looked south and saw the old road. “They’ll not be
a’comin
’ by that road if they know anything about this region,” he surmised aloud.

“Same as I thought, Milord,” came back Ramsey then bluntly asked, “Ye
expectin
’ an attack, Milord?”

Douglas
smiled and affectionately patted Hotspur’s pennon strung to his saddlebow. “
Expectin
’ hain’t
a’gettin
’,” he answered then added, “But we
will
be ready.”

Within the hot and uncomfortable tower the chief burgess came up the inner stairs to the parapet level to get a fresh whiff of air. There before him sat a second burgess on the same personal mission. The archers and others considered to be the town’s first line of defense against attackers fairly crowded the parapet echelon simply because it was the heat in the core of the building that drove them to fresh air.

“You know,” started the burgess named Samuel, “Even if we’re not attacked this is
gonna
kill a lot of the older folk.”

Henry, the chief burgess took a deep breath appreciating every bit of the cooler air. “Your point is valid,” he said on the exhale. “What are we to do
?...
Can’t just leave them out for the Scotch to kill.”

“What’s the difference… fast or slow?” said Samuel looking off into space.

“We ought to have a priest or somebody like that to know what to do,” he replied.

“Hell, thought that was why they put you in charge,” argued Samuel changing his stare to the eyes of desperate Henry. “Those lives are square in your hands, sire!”

Henry glanced around to see if any had heard his fellow burgess placing blame on him. Seems almost everyone to a man was staring hard in their direction as if they were agreeing with Samuel. One of the archers boldly said, “We don’t want them here if we get attacked anyway.”

A grumble of agreement was heard throughout the standing men. Another said anonymously, “They’ll be underfoot and
screamin
’!”

“Shit!” cursed Henry in a growling manner lowering his head.

“Shit ain’t the answer,” said Samuel standing tall. “You got us in this fix now get us out!”

Henry breathed deep then proposed a hasty plan, “I figure the Scotch know where our livestock is
a’ready
,” he explained, “
so
we’ll have to move it on to another wood.”

“So you want to take the old people to the wood with the kine?” sarcastically asked Samuel.

Henry growled harshly and came up from his stoop with a dagger in his fist, “You take on the task, you bastard!” he yelped brandishing the blade about an inch from the burgess.

Samuel was unaccustomed to being threatened and instinctively grabbed Henry’s throat with his one hand and with his other grabbed Henry’s knife hand, slamming him against the stone parapet wall.

None of the warriors did anything to stop the fight between the two ‘out of character’ burgesses.

The tussle came to brute strength and Samuel’s greater height made the difference as he pressed Henry’s own blade into his throat. The blood began to flow until his breathing became shallow and his body slumped.

Samuel stood back and looked at his handy work lying dead at his feet.

The battlement area was silent. Two of the men came forward, picked up the newly killed chief burgess and threw him off the back side of the building. He hit the bog with a squishy thud and that was that.

Samuel knew it was then his responsibility to save the citizens of his village and he was going to have to evacuate them as soon as it was dark. Henry was probably right that they knew where the cattle were being held and he would have to do something about that at the same time.

If they were attacked they did not want to have panicked citizens who could do little more than encumber their efforts.

Among the men on the parapet at that hour was the common secret of Henry’s killing that without saying a word, they bonded themselves to never tell.

The thousand man army of James Douglas straggled into the camp site. They would unsaddle their horses that were anxious to get to the green grass refreshed by the flowing River Rede. The horses had been fed grandly while at
Newcastle
as they were let out in the several corn fields surrounding the West Gate.

The men took their kits and tack up the hill to join the larger group of Scottish warriors already well ensconced as far as shelters and cook fires.

Mungan dragged the saddle from the back of his large warhorse while Adara slid the straps from the ring buckles of the horse’s bridle. She seemed happy in her newly assumed role of warrior’s woman.

Mungan slapped his horse on the rump and set it free to join the others already enjoying their restricted liberty.

“Reckon he’s glad for not
havin
’ the two of us on his back
a’weightin
’ him down so,” she adjudged.

Mungan grunted as if he did not care for poetic notions because he didn’t. He picked up his various weapons while she slung his kit over her shoulder then picked up the saddle and bridle. Mungan grunted again as he took the bridle from between her teeth, put his head in a loop in the straps and letting it fall around his neck.

They climbed the hill to where the other warriors were camping, found a clear spot and threw their kit et al on the ground.

He
laid
down and leaned back on his elbows. Looking at his boots he thought it would be good if he took them off and gave his toes an airing.

Adara sprawled out beside him on the green grass. “We
a’makin
’ a house?” she asked casually.

“What for?” he asked. “Be gone in a day, we will.”

“Might rain in a day,” she answered.

“Might not, too,” he argued.

She grumped and rolling over turning her back to him. She grumped again and louder.

Mungan wished he understood women just a wee bit better but then a liberating thought came to him, he got along good before he rescued her from the English a mere few days back. That vision quickly transformed into holding her soft body close to his and knew that new found experience held him a prisoner.

He looked out to see the sun falling closer to the horizon and changing blues to yellows with a narrow band of green dividing them.

Others around were building lean-to type shelters and he wondered why. They certainly did not have women to pull to them at night. Maybe they were just tired of being constantly wet as they were in
Newcastle
. But it couldn’t have been a new experience for them to be soaked to the skin for long periods of time.

Then he sat bolt upright with an idea of a disastrous possibility… she might just take up with another man who had a shelter. Jealousy, at that moment, became a live monster within his being. Even worse, he liked being her prisoner.

His mind thrashed on his choices and rewards.

He liked having a liege lord who told him what to do. Life had been simple, uncomplicated to a fault up until that moment. But on the other hand…

Mungan quickly took up his battle axe and headed for the near wood to cut saplings to make his woman a shelter. When he returned, dragging his cuttings behind him, she was pretending to be asleep but she secretly watched him work from a squinting eye. She was pleased he was building her a shelter and thought he should soon find her a pair of boots from a dead Englishman even if they didn’t fit.
 

Before the sun plunged all the way to darkness
Douglas
had called his higher and lesser knights who commanded men together to plan the battle that may or may not occur. Although they had to suppose several scenarios of approach by the English, the plans were well integrated with commonalities.

James Douglas, comfortable with his ‘alarm system’ of scouts in place, also announced that they were going to raid the tower house in the morning as a diversion to taking not only the sheltered cattle they knew about but other cattle hidden in the vicinity without going too far afield with too many men-at-arms.

He also talked to Alexander Ramsey and John Halliburton about alternating some of the bulwark of trees and branches based on the newly developed plans decided on by the war council.

August 19 - Early Morning

Newcastle-upon-Tyne

Two old men were foraging for food through the wood near the burned Pointeland village when they happened on Roger and his dead horse

“Horse is good for
eatin
’,” said the older man poking the flesh with his walking stick. “Right fresh killed, it seems.”

The younger man leaned close to Roger and sniffed, “He smells not all that dead, either.”

“Maybe he ain’t dead,” said the elder.

Roger’s eyes suddenly opened and he tried to jump back but his body refused to obey.

“He’s got life in him!” yelped the younger old man.

“Ask him his business,”

“What’s – your – business?” he asked in loud measured words.

“Help me up,” groaned Roger trying with all his might to get to his feet.

“Wants help, he does.”

The two old men tried to maneuver Roger to a sitting position knowing they could never get him fully upward and so thought to get help.

The long shadows across the ground had grown shorter by the time the old men returned with, Gilbert, the erstwhile warden of Castle Pointeland.