Games of Otterburn 1388 (4 page)

“With three hundred fifty men and forty knights,” said John holding to his stand.

“Well come they… and ye are,” said Robert.

“This is quite a
showin
’,” said John taking a deep breath. “How
many’s
here?”

“Your four hundred or so puts us well over ninety-five hundred,” answered
Douglas
.

“Ye men are ‘bout ready for a big war, methinks,” said John. “Seems almost twice what Granddaddy had at
Bannockburn
as I recall the stories.”

“Need more these days, brother,” said Robert sitting back on his bench at the table.

“
‘Specially
since yer
splittin
’ them up and
goin
’ in two different directions,” opined John.

“Ye
spyin
’ on us, brother?” asked
Fife
.

“Thin door,” replied John giving the door an underhand couple of knocks.

“‘Tis for true,
ne’ertheless
,” growled
Douglas
retaking his position, expecting an ally in John.

“Don’t ye figure ye’ll have enough
fightin
’
a’ready
?” said John in a calm voice.

“What would ye do, lord
guardian
?” slyly pushed
Douglas
.

“I’m not here to choose yer sides for
ye
,” said Carrick. “I’m here to bring
ye
what troops I can spare for the venture.”

“And we are certainly pleased to have ye along as well,” said Robert slathering on the butter. “Have ye seen the king of late?”

“I did see our father nay more than three days past,” said John looking directly at Robert then deciding to add a stab of guilt. “I
bothered
to stop by Dundonald.”

“And was he well?” he asked without accepting the guilt.

“Not so bad off as he could give me poor advice on subjects I care not about,” answered John.

“Not changed then?” said Robert.

“Keep an eye on
ye
, he said,” replied John. “He said for me to keep an eye on
ye
, my brother.”

“An eye on me?” asked Robert. “Why would he say such a thing?”

“Reckon he wanted me to keep
ye
safe. Older brother that I am… ye know,” answered John feigning kindliness.

Robert smiled but was certainly puzzled.

“Ye men can continue yer argument now,” said John as he reached for the latch on the door. “I know I am the Guardian but this raid is tainted with far more ill than I would like to think was good for our dear
Scotland
. Fights seem to be rampant along our border with
England
a’ready
.”

“We are but protecting our own, John!” parried Robert.

“As ye say, brother,” continued John. “I know ye found out the Bruce had punished the
Marches
for a number of years and it eventually we got a treaty of peace but ye might be
findin
’ this to be a different situation nowadays.”

Douglas
and
Fife
pretended to care but in the final analysis they truly were not interested in what John had to say. In some philosophical realm both men knew John to be right but they were making decisions in a far lower realm than cerebral.

Robert’s anger suddenly rose. He stood and pushed his face tight to
Douglas
’ spitting his words, “Hain’t
lettin
’ ye go east on yer own
!...
I know ye think of me as a worst commander than yerself but
ye’ll be
takin
’ my orders for this raid!
”

James Douglas’ smile of confidence turned to a frown as Robert whisked past him toward the door.

John who already had a hand on the latch swung it wide for Robert as he whipped by to have an out-of-doors meeting with his men.

“We’ll take this up again when ye return, Milord,” said
Douglas
his voice trailing off behind his liege.

“Not likely,” growled Robert through gritted teeth.

“London is mystified,” started Robert the Stewart as he began his meeting to tell of his plan to raid into the West March to get the attention of the twenty-one year old King Richard II of England and his baronial ‘Lords Appellant’ who had usurped much of the power from the king because they had rebelled against their king in particular and his Bohemian queen in general. The crisis came when the conscripted army of the king under the command of Robert la
Vere
abandoned their commander and deserted into the swamp at the battle of
Radcot
Bridge
the year before.

He began his talk, “Our raid on
Carlingford
,
Ireland
and
Douglas
Bay
on Man led by the two men who stand beside me here has made the English lords sit up and wonder what the Scots
here’bouts
are fixed to do. If ye don’t already know
these men… on my left is
Sir Robert Stewart of Durisdeer and my right is Sir William Douglas of
Nithsdale
the son of Archibald… the Grim… true son of Black Douglas and Lord of Galloway.”

Archibald, standing within a man or two of his son in the circle, hooted and waved his battle axe above his head in support of his son. The other two hundred and thirty-seven high knights who were gathered followed the proud father and added to the din.

Carlingford
and Man had been very successful raids that ended with fifteen galleys of spoils in food and weapons bonded to their current venture with the added boon of the purloined galleys then moored in Loch Ryan.

“At first light on the morn we’ll be
goin
’
raidin
’ in the West March toward
Carlisle
!” announced Robert.

Another round of expected rousing hoots filled the air.

In the meantime, a young man named Alfred of about twenty years was standing hard by the meeting area had heard enough and while he seemed to have a good chance of undetected escape he slipped away across the camp ground of knight’s tents and temporary debris constructions to make for the pinfold where some of the horses for the raid were kept. The area was most of an acre and chosen chiefly for the new green grass under an open sky. Its boundary was defined by sturdy branches tied chest high onto the trunks of surrounding trees.

Alfred brazenly entered the pinfold and was immediately challenged.

“Who ye with?” asked the suspicious squire of Sir John Swinton of
Brunswickshire
named James, a lad of about thirteen years but large and strong for his age.

“A knight of high importance,”
snarked
Alfred evading the question.
“Come to fetch my master’s destrier, I have,” he lied.

“Which knight?” asked James growing more
suspicious.

“Uh…” he paused to think and blurted with the first name that came to mind, “The Grim
!...
now leave me to my master’s work ere I get a
thrashin
’,” he blurted.

James smiled. “Which destrier ye
reckon’s
his one?”

Alfred’s head began to reel thinking he had been discovered. “Yon one,” he said pointing to a thick group of horses.

“Which
yon
one?” questioned James honing in on the man.

Alfred could go no further. He balled his fist and struck James in the eye knocking him to the grass. He then made for the horse closest at hand, grabbed it by the mane and jump-rolled onto
its
back kicking it hard in the ribs.

The horse reared and about tossed his rider back to the ground then it ran hard for the open gate.

Alfred was gleeful.

James got to his feet just in time to see horse and rider coming hard on him.

Alfred intended to run James under hoof.

James stood his ground as the horse came closer.

Alfred kicked the stolen horse hard in the ribs.

James did not waver and at the last instant he jumped to the side of the horse, grabbed the boot of the rider and pushed him off the mount onto the other side.

Alfred fell hard to the ground as the horse kept running through the gate.

“Ye bastard English spy!” screamed James as he pounced on him and began to whale the daylights from the already dazed Alfred.

The horse continued its run through the tents and past the gathered knights and nobles at the lodge.

Nineteen year old Sir John Dunbar grabbed the horse by the neck-hair and weighted it down until it stopped. There was a rouse of excitement around the camp because of the runaway horse so that none of the men heard the more important ruckus at the pinfold.

James got one good last punch in before he fell over onto Alfred as if trying to hold the man down even if he happened to pass out.

As the Earl of Moray was returning the horse to the pinfold he saw Squire James make his last strike on Alfred’s face.

He came to the lad, “This fight got
somethin
’ to do with this loose horse?” he demanded.

Weak but determined James with the aid of a nearby sapling forced himself to his feet and answered, “He’s either a spy or a thief…
Milord.”

Alfred began to stir.

James gave him a good kick with his booted foot.

“How ye figure, Squire?” growled
Dunbar
stepping between the two men.

Alfred tried to remain quiet on the ground but could not help the involuntarily low moans leaking from his mouth because of the pain of his wounds.

“Speaks funny… like English talk,” explained James.

Dunbar
wanting to discover the truth for
himself
, yanked up the smarting man by the back of his shirt and ordered him, “Speak!”

The man swooned and fell against a tree and with little regard to
Dunbar
’s nobility status, he went mute.

“I swear he’s of English blood,” insisted James. “And he was
tryin
’ to steal a horse… said it was his lord’s!”

“Who’d he say?”