The Scots besieging Newcastle—The Fight on the Walls.
The smaller force, under the Douglas, broke up from Jedworth, and set
forward in high spirits, cheered by the good countenance and presence
of their renowned commander. Their parting shouts were re-echoed from
the sides of the surrounding hills, and were replied to with yet louder
bursts of acclamation by the large army of which they had been so
lately a portion. Their route lay through the wilderness of the forest
which at that time covered the country, and they soon lost even the
cheers of their departing comrades, that, mellowing by degrees, at last
died away among the hollow valleys. On entering Northumberland, the
Earl of Douglas allowed little time for pillaging the country, but
stretched forward with the utmost expedition, so that he might carry on
the war directly into the heart of the Bishoprick of Durham, before his
movements could be made known to the Earl of Northumberland, who was at
Alnwick, or to his two sons, who were at that moment patiently waiting
at Newcastle, with the other English lords, for the return of their
spy.
The Douglas was by no means one who could endure to make a mere empty
show of invasion, for the purpose of creating a diversion that might
smooth the way of his politic brother-in-law the Earl of Fife. His
force was small indeed, but he resolved that it should do England as
much harm as he could effect with it. Passing the River Tyne,
therefore, at some distance above Newcastle, he spread his troops over
the fair County of Durham, and began taking an awful, nay, a tenfold
revenge, for the miseries which the Merse had so lately endured, at the
hands of the English, by carrying devastation far and wide.
The news that the Scots were abroad at last reached Newcastle and
Durham, and their numbers being exaggerated, these towns were filled
with great consternation. They now learned the tale, indeed, from the
evidence of their senses, for the smoke of the continued conflagration,
creeping heavily over the country, and, carrying the smell of
combustion along with it, poisoned the very air of both these places.
Having reached the gates of Durham, the Douglas found them firmly
closed against him; so, after skirmishing there for some days, he
pushed on, destroying everything in his way, even to the very gates of
York, and leaving no town unburnt that was not sufficiently walled to
require a regular siege.
Having thus more than made good a chivalric vow with which he had
started, that he should see Durham ere he returned, and having already
ventured farther into a hostile country than his small force warranted,
he returned towards Newcastle, industriously perfecting any destruction
that he had before left unfinished; and having re-crossed the Tyne, at
the same spot where he had passed it in his way southwards, he set
himself down before the town on the side lying towards Scotland. The
place was strongly garrisoned, and contained the flower of the chivalry
of the counties of York, Durham, and Northumberland; for as soon as it
was fully known that the Scots were abroad, and that they had already
passed onwards into Yorkshire, a general rising of the country took
place, under the influence of Harry Piersie, lately appointed Keeper of
the Northumbrian Marches; and orders were even despatched to the
governors of Berwick, Norham, and the other fortresses now in rear of
the enemy, to join the general muster with what force they could spare
without too much weakening their garrisons.
Sir Rafe Piersie had long ceased to think of Eleanore de Selby. His
passion was like the summer-storm, violent in character, but short in
duration. His father, the haughty old Earl of Northumberland, had heard
of it, and had signified his unqualified displeasure that his son
should have even thought of a marriage with the daughter of a mere
soldier; while his elder brother, the lively and peppery Hotspur, had
laughed and railed at him till he became tired of the very name of De
Selby. Part of this feeling arose from an honourable cause. His
conscience told him that he had permitted his violent temper to make
him forget what was due to the courtesy of knighthood, and he now so
deeply repented him of his conduct at Norham, where he had so grossly
insulted his host, that the scene never occurred to his mind without
bringing the blush of shame to his cheek. He longed for an opportunity,
where, without debasing himself, he might prove these feelings to Sir
Walter; and the issuing of the order for the Border Captains to appear
at Newcastle being the first that presented itself, he immediately
availed himself of it.
“Brother,” said he to Hotspur, “as for Sir Matthew Redman of Berwick,
he is a stout and able Captain, and in his own person a powerful aid.
But what wouldst thou, I pray thee, with bringing the old Captain of
Norham so far from home?”
“Dost thou fear to meet him, Rafe?” cried Hotspur, with a sarcastic
smile; “or wouldst thou rather that I should send for his dark-eyed
daughter hither?”
“Nay, nay, brother,” replied Sir Rafe; “but methinks he is of years
somewhat beyond the battle-field.”
“Thou mayest do with him as thou listest, brother Rafe,” replied
Hotspur, who was too busy to waste time on such a matter; “but we must
have his men.”
Armed with Sir Henry Piersie’s authority to do so, Sir Rafe despatched
an especial messenger to Sir Walter de Selby, to assure him that it
rejoiced him much to be the instrument of procuring his exemption from
personal attendance at Newcastle, which to one who had already seen so
many fields, must be rather irksome. The messenger found Sir Walter de
Selby lately recovered from his bodily malady; for the death of the
wizard Ancient and his villainy being now known to him, he again
enjoyed comparative peace of mind. But he was much enfeebled by the
shocks he had received. He heard the courier to an end; and the
moisture in his eye, with the nervous motion in his closed lips, showed
how much he was affected by it.
“Am I then deemed to be so old and worthless?” said he, after a pause.
“The time was when the Marches, neither East nor West, could have
turned out a starker pricker; yet was it kind in Sir Rafe Piersie,
after what hath passed between us, and tell him, I beseech thee, that I
so felt and received his message. But it shall never be said that I am
behind when others are in the field; it shall never be said of old Sir
Walter de Selby, who hath worn the hauberk and morion from his cradle,
that he was afraid to die in knightly harness. No, no; let Tom
Turnberry prepare my war steed; I’ll lead mine own spears to Newcastle.
To thee, my good Lieutenant Oglethorpe, do I commit the keeping of old
Norham. It is King Richard’s now. See that it hath no other master when
I or King Richard demand it of thee.”
With these words, the brave old warrior gave orders for his men to
assemble immediately, and mounting, with the aid of his esquires, he
rode from the court-yard at the head of his force, on a mettlesome
horse, the fiery paces of which but ill suited with his years; as he
went, he joined feebly in the parting cheer with which his brave bowmen
and lances took leave of their comrades.
It was the daring spirit of chivalry, more than any great hope of
taking the town, that induced the gallant Douglas to tarry for two days
before Newcastle. The most powerful thirst of heroic adventure then
prevailed, and those within the town were as eager to rush beyond their
ramparts to meet the assailants, as the Scottish knights were to
assault them. Both days, therefore, were occupied in a succession of
skirmishes; and it was a remarkable feature of this warfare, that it
seemed to be more regulated by the courtesy of the tournament, than
guided by the brutal and remorseless rage of battle. No sooner did a
body of lances show itself from within the Scottish lines, than another
of equal numbers appeared from behind the barriers of the town,
prepared to give it a meeting. Spurring from opposite sides, the
combatants encountered each other midway, as if they had been in the
lists. A desperate shock took place, followed by a melée, in which
prodigious feats of arms were done, whilst the English from their
walls, and the Scottish troops from their temporary entrenchments,
alternately cheered their friends, as one or other side gained the
advantage. But, what was most wonderful, everything resembling atrocity
appeared to be banished from the field, and mercy and generosity so
tempered victory, that it was difficult to say whether the contest was
greatest for glory in the skirmish, or for superiority in clemency, and
every other noble feeling, after it was over.
On the evening of the first day, the Lord Douglas, to give the troops a
breathing, ordered the place to be assaulted by means of scaling
ladders, with the hopes of perhaps surprising it by a coup-de-main. The
Scottish troops rushed to the walls with their usual hardihood, and Sir
Patrick Hepborne and Sir John Assueton were found in the very front of
the attack made by the Earl of Moray’s division. Although they were
provided with fascines and trusses of straw to throw into the ditch,
yet the ladders were in general found to be too short for surmounting
the walls. At one place, however, they were successfully applied; and
the two knights, followed by their esquires and some few others,
gallantly mounted in the teeth of the enemy, and fought their way into
the town, driving the English before them; but being unsupported, owing
to the failure of the escalade in other quarters, they were unwillingly
compelled to retreat, which they and their followers did, bravely
fighting with their faces to the enemy. Having gained the spot where
they had climbed, the two friends planted themselves side by side
firmly in front of it, to cover the retreat of those who were with
them, and gallantly kept a whole host of foes at bay, until all who had
entered the place with them had descended, except their trusty
esquires, and two other individuals whom they had not leisure to note.
The ladders had all been broken or thrown down in the confusion except
one, and the English so pressed upon the little knot of Scotchmen that
it appeared impossible for so many of them to escape.
“One desperate charge at them, Assueton,” cried Hepborne. “Our safety
depends on driving them back for a brief space’s breathing. On them,
brave Scots!”
The two knights raised a shout, in which they were joined by their
fellow-combatants, and with one accord rushed furiously against the
dense circle of English. The effect was tremendous. Many were
overthrown by the vigorous blows of the knights and their assistants,
but more by the press and confusion occasioned by the panic, excited by
the belief that they were backed by a fresh assault of troops from
without the walls. There was a momentary dispersion of them; but the
individuals of the Scottish party were also separated from each other,
and as Sir Patrick Hepborne returned to the rallying point, he was
grieved to discover his friend Assueton lying wounded and helpless on
the ground. He immediately stooped, to endeavour to set him on his
legs, but he was unable to support himself.
“Leave me, dear Hepborne,” said Assueton faintly; “thine own safety
depends on thy doing so.”
“Leave thee, Assueton!” cried Hepborne with energy; “nay, by St.
Baldrid, if I cannot bear thee hence, I will perish with thee. Clasp
thine arms round my neck, my friend,” added he, as he lifted him up
from the ground, and began carrying him towards the walls. “Be of good
cheer, and tighten thy grasp; thou dost thereby lighten my burden.”
As he moved off, the English returned, shouting upon his heels, with
Sang sullenly retreating before them.
“Succour, succour, my trusty esquire,” cried Hepborne; “I have a life
here to preserve dearer to me a thousand times than mine own.”
Sang came up to him as he reached the top of the only remaining ladder.
To the esquire he hastily confided the care of Assueton, and, turning
on the foe, again drove them before him, so as to give Sang leisure to
descend with his burden; and then hastily returning to the spot where
the ladder was, he discovered that it was broken, and saw Sang in the
ditch beneath, endeavouring to extricate himself and the wounded knight
from the bundles of straw and fascines among which they had fallen. The
enemy were fast gathering behind, and he had no alternative. Selecting
a place where the heaps in the ditch were highest, he sprang from the
wall, and happily alighted almost uninjured.
Whilst he and his squire were busily employed in lifting Sir John
Assueton from the ditch, their attention was attracted to the walls
above them, where a desperate struggle was going on between two figures
distinctly seen against the sky. But it was of short duration.
“Uve, uve! an she wonnot let her go, by St. Giles, but she shall go wi’
her,” cried Duncan MacErchar, who was one of them; and griping his
enemy fast, he sprang with him over the battlements.
Duncan had by no means time to be so select in the choice of the spot
where he was to alight as Sir Patrick Hepborne had been. But he took
care to leap with his antagonist before him, and his doing so was the
saving of his life, his fall being broken by the body of the wretch who
participated in it, and who was crushed to death against the very
bottom of the ditch, whilst Duncan, though stunned, escaped with some
considerable bruises, and immediately regaining his legs, assisted Sir
Patrick and his esquire to carry off Sir John Assueton to the Scottish
camp.
We have already apprised the reader that the brave knights were
supported by two other individuals besides their esquires. One of
these, it may be guessed, was the brave MacErchar. The other, when the
little party was dispersed after their bold onset, unfortunately missed
his way in attempting to return to the rallying point, and, being
assailed by a crowd of his foes, was compelled to retreat before them,
until he was stopped by a wall, under which he took shelter, and
prepared himself for a desperate resistance.
“Yield thee, Scot,” cried some of the first who came up to him. “On
him—Seize him,” cried a dozen of them at once.
“By St. Lowry, ’tis right well for ye Southrons to cry yield to ane
honest Scotchman. But troth, I’ll tell ye it’s easier to say so to ane
o’ my country than to gar him do it, and mair, when ye speak to the
henchman o’ the Yearl o’ Moray himsel’,” cried Rory Spears; for it was
he, no longer clad, indeed, in his fishing coat and otterskin cap, but
armed as became the Earl of Moray’s henchman, and wielding a long
pole-axe instead of his gaud-clip.
“Take him alive,” cried an officer who was present; “let not his life
be taken, as you value your own. If he be of the Earl of Moray’s
household, we may be the better for knowing some of his secrets.”
“Troth, ye’ll hae ill taking o’ me without taking my life too, my
lads,” said Rory, swinging his pole-axe so cleverly around him that no
one was disposed to risk approaching him.
“In on him and take him, his ransom will be great,” cried the officer;
and thus encouraged, one or two of the hardiest did venture to attempt
to close on him, but they paid dearly for their daring, being
prostrated to right and left like so many nine-pins. The rest were so
scared that they scrupled to approach him; and he might have kept them
off long enough had not a man who had climbed on the wall behind him
suddenly dropped down on his shoulders à califourchon, and brought him
headlong to the ground.
“Well done, Tom Turnberry,” cried a dozen voices at once, and in an
instant Rory was overpowered, and hastily dragged down a stair and
thrust into a dark dungeon under the ramparts, where he was left to his
own reflections.
“Is there ony ither poor deevil like mysel’ here?” demanded Rory aloud,
after he had in some measure recovered his breath; but finding that no
one answered, he went to talk to himself. “Na—nae answer. A-weel,
Maister Spears, thou art here, art thou, amang the foundations o’
Newcastle? This is seeing merry England wi’ a vengeance. Troth, after
a’, if this is to be the upshot, thou mightest as weel hae turned back
frae Norham yonder. Thou canst be of nae satisfaction to the Yearl
whiles thou art liggen here, I trow. And as to ony mair comfort or
consolation in the wars, thou mayest e’en bid them good day, for
thou’lt hae nae mair o’ them, I’ll promise thee. By my troth, an thou
hadst not seen this day’s fighting, thou mightest hae been as well
liggen on the rocks at the Ess. A-weel, a-weel—it is most surprising
how a man o’ sense wull gae wrang at times. Hadst thou no been a fool,
ye might hae let thae wud chields climb the wa’s o’ Newcastle
themlanes, that is, takin’ thy time o’ life into consideration. By holy
St. Mary, what wull become o’ poor Kate? Hoot, the Leddy o’ Norham wull
surely see her sent safe back to Tarnawa; though in conscience I had
rather been her guide mysel. I was a fool to leave the damosel. And
then, St. Lawrence protect me, how I wull be missed at hame.” The
thought of his daughter, of his wife, and of his home, grappled Rory by
the heart, so that he did nothing but sigh for some moments. “A-weel,”
continued he at length, “I maun say, after a’, that albeit there is a
great pleasure in fighting, it is but a fool-thing for God’s rational
creatures to be cutting ane anither’s throats as if they war wild cats
or wolf-beasts. What for sould I come a’ the gate frae Findhorn-side to
cleave the skull o’ some poor honest deevil o’ the Tyne here, against
whom, as I hope for mercy mysel, I hae no decent or wiselike cause o’
quarrel? War is a fool-thing; but I wull say there is some pleasure
in’t, after a’.”
“Ay!” said a long yawning voice from a deep recess in the dungeon.
“St. Lowry defend us, wha’s that!” cried Rory.
“One Roger Riddel,” replied the voice.
“What hast thou been doing, that thou hast been so long silent?”
demanded Rory.
“Sleeping,” answered Roger.
“Thou art esquire to that brave knight Sir John Assueton, if I err
not?” said Rory.
“Thou art right,” replied Roger.
“And how, in the name of St. Andrew, camest thou here?” demanded Rory.
“By being taken,” replied Roger.
“Thou wert on the ramparts with us to the last,” said Rory.
“I was,” replied Roger.
“By St. Giles, but it was a noble escalade, comrade, an we had only
been well backed,” cried Spears with enthusiasm.
“Noble,” cried Roger in the same tone.
“Didst thou mark how the knaves fled afore sax o’ us?” cried Rory. “Sax
against twa hundred o’ them at least.”
“Nay, three hundred, brother,” replied Roger.
“Ay, faith, that may be,” said Rory; “I’ll no dispute as to that. There
might be three, ay, or four hundred o’ them, for I had no great leisure
to count them. But this I ken, neebour, that an it hadna been bigget
ground, thou and I souldna hae been here.”
“No, that I’ll promise thee,” replied Roger.
“Where art thou, comrade? Gi’es thy hand; we fought like brave chields
thegither,” cried Rory in great glee, and groping about for Squire
Riddel. “Thou art a prince of brave fellows.”
“And thou art a very king,” replied Roger, shaking him heartily by the
hand.
“’Tis a pleasure to meet thee, though it be in this dungeon,” cried
Rory. “Would we had but some yill to wet our friendship. St. Lowry
grant that we had but a wee sup yill.”
“Ay, would indeed we had a drop of ale,” re-echoed Roger with a deep
sigh.
At this moment steps were heard descending, a light glimmered faintly
for a moment through a chink beneath the door, and the key being
turned, the round, rosy visage of Master Thomas Turnberry, the squire
equerry of Norham, appeared within it. He entered, bearing a lamp in
his hand, and was followed by an attendant, who carried an enormous
pasty, that had been just broken upon, and a huge stoup of ale.
“So!” said Master Turnberry; “put thee down these things, and let the
gentlemen eat and drink. Having put a man into captivity by mine own
hard riding, I do think it but consistent with charity to see that he
starveth not. Yea, and albeit I am but a soberish man myself, yet do I
know that there be others who love ale; and having mortal bowels of
compassion in me, I have pity for the frailties of my fellow-men.”
“Sir,” said Rory, lifting the vessel with great readiness from the
ground, “an thou hadst been St. Lowry himsel, thou couldst not have
ministered to my present wants more cheeringly. I drink to thee from
the bottom o’ my soul——Hech!” cried he, after having swallowed half the
contents of the vessel, with the nicest measurement, and most
scrupulous justice to him who was to come after him; “hech, ’tis most
invigorating to the very spinal marrow. It must be allowed that ye do
brew most excellent nut-brown to the south o’ the Tweed.”
“Excellent, indeed, judging by its good sale,” cried Roger Riddel,
looking into the flagon before he put it to his head; then nodding to
Master Turnberry, he drained it to the bottom.
“By’r lackins, but ye have good go-downs, my masters,” cried Turnberry,
taking the flagon, and raising the bottom of it, so as to show that it
was empty, and at the same time betraying some disappointment.
“Methinks I could ha’e ta’en a drop of ale myself. But there be more
where this came from. See that the gentlemen lack for nothing,” said
he, turning to the attendant. “And so, good night, my merry masters.”
It was about the middle of the ensuing day that Rory Spears was sitting
indulging in soliloquy, Roger Riddel having retired to the farther part
of the vault, where he had thrown himself down, and buried himself
among the straw, to sleep away the time.
“I hae sat for days by mysel, as a relay to watch for the deer,” said
Rory—“ay, and I hae lien for weeks by my lane, watching the saumonts
loupin’, without hearing voice save the water-kelpy roarin’ in the
Ess—yet was I never sae tired as I am at this precious moment, sitting
in this hole, wi’ a bit chink yonder aboon just enew to let a poor
deevil ken that it’s daylight, and that he mought be happy thereout i’
the sun. As for that chield, Roger Riddel there, my ain Oscar would be
mair companionable, I wot. He lies rucking and snorting there as
composed as if he were in the best hostel in a’ bonny Scotland. As St.
Lowry kens, I wad be content to be in its warst, rather than whaur I
am. Holy St. Mungo, the chield hath buried himsel like a very
mouldiwort; I can see nought but his nose. A-weel, an I could only gie
owre thinking o’ Alice, and Kate, and the Yearl o’ Moray, I mought
peraunter sleep mysel.”
As he was stretching himself along the bench where he had been sitting,
with the resolution of trying the experiment, he was disturbed by a
coming step. The door opened, and an officer entered in great seeming
haste.
“Thou art a body attendant of the Earl of Moray, art thou not?” said
he, glancing at Spears.
“Yea, I am the noble Yearl’s henchman, as I mought say,” replied Rory.
“Doubtless thou knowest well the person of the Lord Douglas?” said the
officer.
“Ay, weel do I that,” replied Rory; “and mair, he hath a great
good-wull to me, for mony is the time we hae hunted thegither. Is he
not my master the Yearl’s brother-in-law?”
“Follow me then without loss of time,” said the officer; “Sir Henry
Piersie would have conference with thee.”
Rory said no more, but joyfully obeyed; and the officer, too much
occupied with his errand to investigate things closely, and having no
suspicion that the place contained two prisoners, tripped up the stair
that led from the dungeon, leaving the door open behind him.
Master Roger Riddel was not asleep; he had only dosed, to save himself
the trouble of forming replies to the incessant talk which Rory had
carried on; on peeping out from his straw after the officer and his
fellow-prisoner had left him, and seeing the door of the dungeon wide
open, he slowly raised himself up, walked out of the place, and
ascended the short winding stair, from the top of which he quietly
emerged into the pure air. With the utmost composure, he then struck
into one of the lanes that led from the walls, and walked coolly down a
street, through crowds of anxious individuals, all of whom were too
busily occupied with anticipations of glory or defeat, to notice a man
in the attire of a squire, of whom there were many. Following a crowd
that was pressing forwards, he reached the gate. There was a muster at
the barriers.
“Where are thy weapons, Sir Squire?” demanded a spearman as he passed
by.
“Lend me thy lance, good fellow,” said Roger; “I am in haste—here be
money to get thee another.”
The man gave him the spear, took the money, and thanked him; and Roger
went on. At the gate stood three horses held by a single groom. Roger
went boldly up to him.
“Thou waitest thy master, friend?” said he in a tone of inquiry.
“Yea; and what be that to thee?” replied the fellow surlily.
“Because I have got an angel for thee, and I would know if thou be’st
the right man,” replied Riddel.
“Give it me straight, then, good master,” said the man, eagerly.
“Nay, that will I not, neither straight nor crooked,” replied Riddel;
“that is, not till I know thy master’s name from thee, that I may know
whether in very deed thou be’st the man I do look for.”
“’Tis Sir Robert Ogill that be my master,” replied the man.
“Then art thou the very good fellow I would speak with,” said Roger.
“Give me that roan as fast as may be, and this angel here is the token
thy master Sir Robert sent thee. I ride on business of his to the
barrier.”
Without more ado, and without interruption from the groom, he leaped
into the saddle, and riding by the guards at a careless pace, got
beyond the barriers, and put his horse to speed for the Scottish camp.
A shout was raised among a party of spearmen who were forming without,
and some dozen or two of them spurred after him; but he had gained so
much start of them, and his horse was so good, that he escaped in spite
of all their exertions, and got fairly within the lines occupied by his
countrymen.