Games of Otterburn 1388 (31 page)

“What?” asked Adara with a feigned English accent while she smiled
disarmingly.
She stepped closer to the spy, looked up into his eyes and placed her hand on his leg in pretend affection.

He smiled at her attention and bragged, “Saw them Scotch with a goodly lot of plunder, I did.”

“Were you afraid?” she asked, her brows sympathetically arching.

“Not me,” he said sitting tall on his horse and smiling widely.

“Where’d you see such a sight?” pushed Adara. Mungan’s temper was growing short as he thought she was setting her cap for the bastard spy.

“Scotch Gap, ‘twas,” he said still on his high horse.

Mungan had had enough and motioned for the spy to lean down where his face was closer to his saddle. When the man did, Mungan hit him hard on the face and grabbed the reins.

He jumped back in surprise but it was too late for any reaction against the highland giant.

“Why’d ye do that?!” said Adara slipping back to her natural Scottish accent.

“
‘Cause
ye liked him… maybe,” he muttered.

The spy, not knowing what hit him went a bit faint in the saddle.

“Ye jealous?” she asked smiling.

He grumped not wanting to admit to any form of jealousy.

“Ye walk this man o’er to yer liege lord yon,” she instructed pointing to the earl on horseback moving through the gathered warriors, “tell him what he just told us and I figure ye’ll then know ye got no reason for jealousness!”

Mungan grumped again not believing her.

“Go on!” she pushed him.

Reluctantly he plodded across the field. She walked a few feet behind. The spy, still in the dark about Mungan’s attitude turned in the saddle and smiled at Adara.

She shot him a sarcastic smile and waved her hands to encouraged Mungan to move faster.

Mungan got to where Earl John was and weakened. He was far from sure if he should even talk to the great noble. He took a deep breath and holding the reins to the spy’s horse out as an offering. Bowing his head he began to tell the earl what the spy had told them…

On his finish he looked at Adara and she proudly smiled at him as the near crowd was pleased the spy had been taken.

“Get him off his horse,” ordered John.

As the spy got to the ground he was asked by John, “When did ye see the Scots?”

The spy realizing he had already told all the important news and fearing retribution from his English lords asked, “
You’ll
not be
a’tellin
’ them inside that I spoke?”

“We don’t talk to them inside,” said John, “and we’ll be
turnin
’ ye loose when we leave… ye’ll be free.”

“Last
evenin
’ ‘round sundown, ‘twas,” admitted the spy.

John hoped he was too dense to tell lies.

The trumpet from the wall blew and John Dunbar knew the tourney was about to happen.

The heavy iron bound double doors at the West Gate were flung open and out came Hotspur in all his glory playing to the cheering warriors who lined the wall walk over looking the field.

Following were Sir Ralph and his twenty knights dressed in their best regalia.

Douglas
got atop his borrowed stallion ‘Sorrow’ and gave it a friendly pat on its withers.

“Best take this,” said George holding the spear close to
Douglas
. “He’s out with his lance.”

Douglas
nodded his agreement and fit his helm over his head and adjusted the sharp snouted face visor void over his brow so his face showed.

“Be aware,” advised George as
Douglas
took the spear.

“I’m always aware, George. Weary not… this will be amusing!” he said

With that
Douglas
casually sallied to the edge of the far end of the silage field alone. His knights sitting horse came in a line behind him.

Hotspur came to the center of the muddy field and waited, his lance proudly held upward, the butt into its proper leather that hung from the saddle.

“You ready?” shouted Hotspur across the field.

“At yer pleasure,” answered
Douglas
just before lowering the visor on his helm.

Hotspur nodded and lowered his visor.

The crowds on both sides cheered wildly in anticipation.

Hotspur lowered his lance and kicked his horse hard in the ribs.

Douglas
lowered his stout spear and kicked spurs to his horse.

They galloped toward each other at best speed while lowering their lances poised to strike the opponents shield dead center.

The sound of lance strikes in single combat was like a thunderclap best understood only at a personal level.

Both men reeled in their saddle as they passed.

Their shields had single deep scars embedded on their newly painted surfaces.

They wheeled and came at each other again slinging mud behind them.

Douglas
was ready to see what Sorrow could do as he loosed his reins a bit and held his shield tighter.

The clash
came
the same as the first but nothing was the same for Hotspur as his great black
Freasian
slid in the mud and his lance went flying to the side of the field sticking up at an angle.

Hotspur cursed inside his closed helm. The wall grew silent for a half moment then came back in high anger with many a fist in the air, some holding swords and daggers.

Douglas
smiled inside his helm at his success but the tourney was far from over.

“This could get bad, George,” said John.

“Our welcome could be worn right thin,” said George as they intently watched the field for possible trickery.

Sorrow swished his tail as if knowing his part in the fight.

Douglas
threw his spear to the ground and raised his visor just long enough to spout, “What next?!”

Hotspur looked at his lance and knew that was lost even though it was a good advantage for him. He pulled his sword from its scabbard, held it high and kicked his Friesian in
Douglas
’ direction.

Douglas
waited until the last second where he raised up in his stirrups and slammed his blade hard onto Hotspur’s helm. Hotspur reeled again but shook his head as he returned the blow on
Douglas
’ shield, his horse’s hooves slipped on the mudded silage.

Douglas
went to work on that knowledge and without pity or the idea of chivalry he slammed Hotspur’s shield again and again until the blue, red and yellow paint chipped in many places.

As Hotspur tried to recover his horse it slid more in the mud.

Douglas had no interest in killing Hotspur as that would have spoiled his plan but he was not about to be bested by him either.

The English spy standing beside Mungan said, “I figure our Lord Henry’s
gonna
win!”

Mungan growled menacingly at the youth and he knew to keep his mouth shut about anything more.

Hotspur came back on
Douglas
his sword in the air and his shield fixed.

Sorrow bolted before
Douglas
could spur him and ran hard into the black Friesian’s chest then he turned and kicked him with mighty hind legs making the horse slide again.

Addlepated Hotspur forced his Friesian closer and took as many frantic swipes as he could at
Douglas
’ shield trying to get a solid blow on his body. They went around and around exchanging these strikes until the English knight
was
exhausted.

The black Friesian was damaged and he limped on his left foreleg.

Hotspur rode away a number of paces to try and reorganize his mind. The mud played poorly with the large horse that otherwise would have done well on dry ground.

Douglas
wondered what Hotspur was about when he espied the lance standing at an angle in the mud where it would be easy for him to snatch up.

Hotspur
waddled
his head back and forth to signal to the watchers he had a difficulty with his head.

Sorrow lightly trotted across the field as
Douglas
gracefully bent down, grabbed the lance and held it high to his folk. They hooted and war whooped loudly.

Douglas
maneuvered Sorrow across from Hotspur as Ralph came to his brother. “Why not call for another mêlée skirmish?” asked Ralph.

Hotspur raised his visor and angrily admitted, “We’ve been beaten… by the mud!”

Ralph could not believe his brother was done and he pounded his saddlebow with his gauntleted fist then he suddenly realized
Douglas
was holding the lance upon which was attached his brother’s pennon.

Douglas
raised his face visor and sardonically smiled.

Ralph went into a rage and started to draw his sword.

Knights on both side reached for their swords, too.

Hotspur was livid but he was not about to be goaded further than he wanted to be at that moment.

He stayed Ralph’s hand and shouted to
Douglas
, “I see you have my pennon!”

“And I intend to keep it ‘til ye win it back,” he replied holding his broad smile.

“On the morrow when it is a dryer field, perhaps?!” offered Hotspur.

“I will place yer lance upright in the
mud
at my tent flap this day,” said
Douglas
in high spirit. “Come get it at yer leisure, sir!” he challenged. “And if ye fail to retrieve yer honored pennon, I shall have it as a token of victory, affixed to the mantel in the great hall at my Castle Dalkeith in Lothian!”
 

Hotspur became apoplectic. So much so that he did not trust his own anger but shaking with fury as he was, spoke a strong threat of his own, “My pennon, sir, will
never-ever-leave-England-in-your-hands!
”

Douglas
laughed and to purposefully rub salt into an already wounded pride he added, “If ye durst have the will!” He then reined his destrier around and rode away from Hotspur showing his back and triumphantly holding the hard-won lance by the vamplate while the pennon was bouncing to the gait of the horse.