Combat between Douglas and Hotspur—The Fight for the Pennon.
As the Earl of Douglas was sitting in his pavilion, in conversation
with his chaplain, Richard Lundie, on the second day of his being
before Newcastle, a squire in waiting announced to him that one of Lord
Moray’s men wished to have a private interview with him.
“Give him entrance speedily,” said the Douglas, “his business may be of
moment. He seeth me in private when he seeth me alone with him who
knoweth mine inmost soul.”
The squire bowed and retired, and immediately returned to
introduce—Rory Spears.
“Rory Spears!” exclaimed the Douglas; “what hath brought thee hither,
and what hath my brother of Moray to tell my private ear through thy
mouth? Thou art not the messenger he is used to send between us for
such affairs. Were it a matter of wood or river craft, indeed, we might
both recognize thee as a right trusty and merry ambassador; but at this
time we have other game upon our hands. What hath Lord Moray to say?”
“My Lord Yearl o’ Douglas, naebody kens whaur gowd lies till it be
howkit out,” replied Rory, with an obeisance. “Albeit that thou and the
Yearl o’ Moray, my noble master, have never yet discovered my talents
that way, it proveth not that I do lack them. He who is stranger to the
soil may chance to divine that, the which he who owneth it hath never
dreamt of; and he——”
“What doth all this tend to, Rory Spears?” demanded the Earl of
Douglas, interrupting him rather impatiently. “Trust me, though I may
have trifled with thee at Tarnawa, this is no time for such idlesse.”
“Bide a wee, my Lord Yearl, bide a wee,” said Rory, with great
composure; “call it not trifling till thou art possessed of the value
of what I have to effunde unto thee. I was going to tell thee that he
who doth own a man like me, ay, or a horse beast, for instance, may ken
less o’ his qualifications than he who doth see him but for a gliff.”
“But what hath all this to do with thy message from Moray to me?” cried
the Douglas.
“Nought at all, my Lord Yearl,” replied Rory, “for I hae no message
frae him. But,” added he, assuming an air of unusual importance, “it
hath much to do, I rauckon, with the embassage the which I am at this
moment charged with by the Hotspur.”
“The Hotspur—thou charged with a message from the Hotspur!—How can that
be? Quick—try not my patience longer; where hast thou encountered the
Hotspur?” exclaimed the Douglas eagerly.
Rory proceeded to give the Earl a sketch of the history of his capture,
as well as of his being sent for by Sir Harry Piersie.
“He telled me, my Lord Yearl o’ Douglas,” continued he, “that he heard
I confessed mysel to be ane esquire o’ the Yearl o’ Moray’s. I didna
daur to contradick Hotspur, the mair because I am in a manner the
Yearl’s henchman. ‘I hae made yelection o’ thee,’ said he to me, ‘as
the fittest man for my job amang a’ the Scottish prisoners in
Newcastle. Thou art to bear a message of importance frae me to the
gallant Douglas. Tell him Hotspur hath had the renommie o’ his prowess
rung in his lugs till the din hath stirred up his inmost soul and made
his very heart yearn to encounter sae mokell bravery. Yet hath my evil
fortune so willed it,’ quoth he, ‘that though I have sought him
unceasing for these two days, yet have I never had the chance to meet
him hand to hand.’”
“Nay, and God wot, I have not been wanting in my search after the noble
Hotspur,” replied Douglas with energy. “But what said he more?”
“‘Get thee to the Douglas, Sir Squire,’ said he to me. ‘Tell him that I
do entreat him, for the love he bears to chivalry, that he may so order
his next assault that I may not fail to meet him in person. Be the
manner and terms of our encounter of his own fixing, and let him trust
to the word of a Piersie for their fulfilment on this side, as I shall
to the unbroken faith of a Douglas. Bear this to him, Sir Squire, and
take thy liberty and this golden chain for thy guerdon.’”
“Bravo, Harry Hotspur!” cried the Douglas, rising from his seat, whilst
his eyes flashed fire from the joyous tumult of his heroic spirit;
“bravo, brave heart! trust me thou shalt not lack thy desire. Quick—let
me hasten to reply to the gallant Piersie’s challenge with that
promptness the which it doth so well merit. My most faithful and
attached Lundie,” continued he, addressing his chaplain,—“get thee to
the provost, if thou lovest me, and use thy good judgment to choose me
out from among our English prisoners one who may be best fitted for
being the bearer of mine answer. Let him be an esquire, for we would
rather surpass than fall short of Hotspur’s courtesy.”
“Nay, an ye would surpass the courtesy of the gallant Hotspur,” said
Rory, who stood by, “ye maun e’en send him a knight, for he did send
thee ane esquire,—ay, and ane esquire with a golden chain round his
craig.”
“Right,” cried the Douglas in the fulness of his joy—“right, Squire
Rory Spears; for esquire thou shalt hereafter be, sith it hath pleased
Harry Piersie to make thee so. And if a knight is not to be had, by St.
Andrew I’ll make one for the purpose of this embassage.”
“Hear ye, Maister Ritchie Lundie,” cried Rory; “I take thee witness
that my Lord the Yearl o’ Douglas hath allowed me the rank the which
the noble Hotspur did confer on me when I did act as his ambassador.
Let not this escape thy memory”.
“Fear thee not, Rory Spears,” said the Douglas; “I shall myself see
that thine honours shall be duly recognized.”
Lundie soon returned with an English esquire, selected from among the
prisoners. The Earl of Douglas made Rory repeat over in his presence
the message of which he had been the bearer from Hotspur.
“And now, Sir Squire,” said Douglas, “thou hast heard the wish of that
gallant leader, the noble Hotspur. Be thou the bearer of mine answer.
Tell Sir Harry Piersie that for a man to have oped his eyes at noon-day
without beholding the light of heaven would have been as easy as to
have had ears without their being filled with the renowned achievements
of the flower of English chivalry. The Douglas burns to meet him; and
that time may in no wise be lost, but each forthwith have his desire,
tell him that the Douglas will be on the field anon with fifty lances.
Let Sir Harry Piersie come forth with a like number at his back, and
let this be the understanding between the parties, that both escorts
halt within view of each other, and that both knights singly run a
career with grounden spears at the outrance, the knights to be left to
themselves. Be thou, I say, the bearer of these terms and conditions;
but ere thou goest vouchsafe me thy name.”
“My name is Thomas Scrope, so please thee, my Lord,” replied the
esquire.
“Within there,” said the Douglas; “call in my knights and officers. And
now, Sir Squire,” said he, after the pavilion was filled, and he had
given some necessary orders, “kneel down on this cushion, that before
this brilliant knot of Scottish chivalry I may do due honour to him who
is to bear my message to the Hotspur.” The English esquire obeyed. The
Douglas ordered a pair of golden spurs to be buckled on his heels by
the hands of the two eldest Scottish knights present. They then belted
him with a magnificent sword, a gift from the Earl, who immediately
bestowed on him the accolade, saying—
“I dub thee Knight, in the name of God and St. Michael; be faithful,
bold, and fortunate. And now rise up, Sir Thomas Scrope.”
Astounded and confused with this unlooked-for honour, the newly-created
knight but awkwardly received the congratulations which poured in on
him from those present. The Douglas himself conducted him to the door,
where a noble horse, fully caparisoned, awaited him.
“Get thee to saddle, then, Sir Thomas Scrope,” cried he, “and tarry not
till thou hast possessed the Hotspur of our reply to his message. Say
more—that if he liketh not the terms let him name conditions of his
own, to the which I do hereby agree par avance; and let me have them
forthwith, for in an hour hence I shall be in the field in front of
these lines. God speed thee, Sir Thomas.”
“Might it not have been better, my Lord,” said Richard Lundie, after
they were again alone, “might it not have been better to have taken a
new sun to gild so glorious a combat? The day is already far spent.”
“Yea, it is so,” replied the Douglas; “but to-morrow we move hence from
this idle warfare, and I would not willingly go without proving the
metal of the gallant Hotspur, so ’tis as well that his impatience be
gratified.”
The bruit of the coming encounter spread like wild-fire through the
camp, and the whole chivalry within its circuit pressed forward to be
admitted of the chosen band who were to witness the onset of the two
bravest knights in Christendom. Lord Douglas’s difficulty was how to
select so as to avoid giving offence, and he required all his judgment
to manage this. Sir Patrick Hepborne had the good fortune to be one of
those who were admitted into the honourable ranks.
When the gay little cohort of mounted lances were drawn forth in array,
and the Douglas’s banner was displayed, the stout Earl sprang on a
powerful black war-horse, that had neighed and pranced whilst he was
held by two esquires, but that became quiet and gentle as a lamb when
backed by his heroic master. The whole Scottish line turned out to
gaze, and shouts of applause arose that re-echoed from the walls of
Newcastle. Immediately afterwards Sir Harry Piersie appeared before the
barriers of the town, mounted on a milk-white steed, and as Douglas,
even at that distance, could perceive that his escort was of similar
strength and description to his own, he had the satisfaction of
thinking that the terms he had proposed had been accepted. The
fortifications were soon covered by the garrison, who crowded to behold
the combat, and the Scottish cheers were loudly returned by the
English. A trumpet call from the Piersie band was instantly returned by
one from that of Lord Douglas, who immediately gave the word for his
knights to advance, whilst he rode forward so as to gain a position
about fifty yards in front of them, that he might be the better seen by
the opposite party. Having brought up his escort to a point
sufficiently near (as he judged) for the arrangement agreed on, he
halted them, and ordered them to remain steady, whilst he continued to
approach until he came within a due distance for running his course
against Hotspur, who had also come forward a considerable way before
his attendants.
The trumpets from both bands sounded nearly at once, as if by mutual
consent—both knights couched their lances—their armed heels made the
blood spring from the sides of their coursers—and they flew like two
thunderbolts towards the shock. Anxious suspense hung on both sides as
they were stretching over the field, and the silence of the moment was
such that the full crash of the collision entered every listening ear,
however distant. Loud and exulting cheers from the Scottish lines,
which, though they came so far, altogether drowned the uncouth sounds
of dismay that ran along the walls of Newcastle, proclaimed the success
of the Douglas, whose resistless arm, nerved with a strength that few
men could boast, bore the no less gallant Hotspur clean out of his
saddle, though, owing to his adroitness in covering his person against
his adversary’s point, he was hardly if at all wounded.
The band of English knights who attended him, forgetting the nature of
the combat, as well as the express orders they had received from
Piersie, saw their adored leader on the green sward, and thinking only
of the jeopardy he lay in, began shouting—“Hotspur, Hotspur, to the
rescue!” and ere the bold Douglas could well check the furious career
of his horse, he was in the midst of a phalanx of his advancing foes.
Abandoning his ponderous lance, he grasped the enormous mace that hung
at his saddle-bow, and bestirred himself with it so lustily that three
or four of the English chevaliers were in as many seconds dashed from
their seats to the earth, in plight so grievous that there was but
little chance of their ever filling them again. But the throng about
the hero was so great, and their blows rained so thickly and heavily
upon him, that his destruction must have been inevitable long ere his
own band could have reached him, had not the noble Hotspur, whom some
of his people were by this time carrying hurriedly away, called out to
the knights of his party in a voice of command that was rarely
disobeyed—
“Touch not the Douglas—harm not a hair of his head, as ye would hope
for heaven. What, would ye assault at such odds the brave Douglas, who
hath relied on the word of a Piersie? Shame, shame on ye, gentlemen.
Your zeal for Hotspur’s safety came not well at this time for Hotspur’s
honour. Trust me, his life stood in no peril with so chivalric a foe.”
Awed and ashamed by these chiding words, the English knights fell back
abashed, and made way for the valiant Douglas, who emerged from among
them like a hunted lion from among the pack of puny hounds who have
vainly baited him.
“Halt! chevaliers,” cried he, rising in his saddle, and raising his
right arm, as he in his turn addressed his own band, who were pouring
furiously down on the English knights, shouting, “Douglas, Douglas, to
the rescue!” “Halt,” cried he again, “halt, in the name of St. Andrew!
Let the gallant Hotspur retreat in peace. I blame not him for this
small mistake of his trusty followers, the which, after all, was but an
excusable error of affection. And as for thee, Piersie, I thank thee
for thy courtesy. Depardieux, thou hast proved thyself to be brave as
honourable and honourable as brave. Can I say more? By the honour of
knighthood, thou hast proved thyself to be Harry Piersie, and in that
name all that is excellent in chivalry is centred. The chance hath been
mine now; it may be thine anon, if it do so please Heaven. Get thee to
refresh thyself then, for we shall forthwith beat up thy quarters with
a stiffer stoure than any thou hast yet endured.”
“Douglas,” cried Piersie, who was by this time remounted, “Douglas,
thou art all, and more than all that minstrels have called thee.
Farewell, till we again meet, and may our meeting be speedy.”
With these parting words, the two leaders wheeled off their respective
bands.
Immediately after the Earl of Douglas had returned to the camp, a
council of war was held, and, after a short deliberation, preparations
were made for instantly assaulting and scaling the fortifications. The
army was drawn out from its entrenchments and was led to the attack
arranged in three divisions. The Earl of Douglas, attended by the
little chosen band of knights who had that day vowed him their special
service, led on the central body directly against the barriers. The
right and left wings, commanded by the Earls of Dunbar and Moray,
marched on steadily, to attempt the storm of the walls at two several
points on each side of the gates, in defiance of a heavy shower of
arrows from the English bowmen, mingled with some weightier missiles
from the balistæ, which sorely galled them, and which they could but
ill return with their cross-bows. Each of these flanking divisions
covered the approach of a number of wains, laden with hay and straw
collected from the neighbouring country; and so soon as they had come
near enough to the fortifications, a signal was given, the wains were
brought suddenly forward, and hurled one over another into the ditch,
so as in many places to fill it up, and admit of the ladders being
raised against the wall with great success. The Scottish soldiers rent
the air with their shouts, and wielding their destructive battle-axes,
rushed like furies to the escalade. But the English were so well
prepared, and defended themselves so manfully that they beat back the
assailants at every point, and soon succeeded in setting fire to the
combustible materials in the ditch, by throwing down lighted brands, so
that all hope of forcing an entrance in that way was soon at an end.
Meanwhile the Douglas forcibly assaulted the wooden barriers that
defended the entrance to the town; and Piersie and his chivalry, who
were immediately within them, no sooner heard the war-cry of “Douglas,
Douglas! jamais arrière!” than, collecting themselves into one great
body, they rushed out on the Scottish forces with so resistless an
impetus, that nothing could withstand the fury of the stream. Douglas
and his troops were borne away like trees of the forest before some
bursting torrent. But no sooner had the English spread themselves out
upon the plain like exhausted waters, than the voice of the Scottish
hero was heard above all the clang of the battle, cheering his men to
the charge, and his superb figure, exalted on his black courser, was
seen towering onwards against the slackening foe, gathering the firmest
Scottish hearts around him as he went.
The English now in their turn gave back; but Harry Piersie, recovered
from his stunning fall, mounted on a fresh roan, and, surrounded by the
brave knights by whom he was formerly attended, restored their courage
both by his voice and example. Shouts of “Piersie, Piersie!” and
“Douglas, Douglas!” arose from different parts of the field, and were
re-echoed from the walls. At length the two leaders caught a glimpse of
each other amid the volumes of smoke that, tinged by the setting sun,
were rolling along the ground from the blazing straw, which the
descending damps of evening now hardly permitted to rise into the air.
“Ha, Douglas, have I found thee at last?” cried Piersie, turning
towards him.
“Trust me, ’twas no fault of mine that we met not sooner, Harry
Piersie,” cried Douglas, spurring to encounter him with his mace, his
lance having been shivered in the melee.
There was time for no more words. Piersie ran his lance at the Douglas
as he came on, who with wonderful dexterity turned it aside, and
catching it in his hand, endeavoured to wrench it from his owner.
Piersie’s embroidered pennon was waving from the spear head. Douglas
snatched at it, but his adversary disappointed him, by forcing up the
point, and each retaining his grasp, they were now drawn together into
close contact. The little silken trifle, utterly worthless in itself,
glittered like a child’s bauble over their heads; but if it had been a
kingdom they were contending for, they could not have been more eagerly
set on the contest. Each forgetful of the defence of his own life, put
forth all his strength and skill, the one to obtain what he considered
so glorious a prize, and the other to keep what he thought it would be
so disgraceful to lose, and what, moreover, he so much valued, for the
sake of her whose taper fingers had interwoven its golden threads. The
struggle was strong, but it was short in duration, for the iron hands
of Douglas snapt the slim ashen shaft in twain, and in an instant he
held up the broken lance, and waved the pennon triumphantly over his
head.
“The Piersie’s pennon! recover the Piersie’s pennon!” was the instant
cry, and the English crowded to assist Hotspur, led on by Sir Rafe
Piersie.
At that moment a body of Scottish lances, headed by Sir Patrick
Hepborne, came pouring down in tremendous charge, shouting “Douglas,
Douglas!” and dividing the two combatants as they swept onwards, they
bore away the Piersies and the English before them to the very
barriers, where the press of the combat was so hot, that they were soon
compelled to retreat within their palisadoes, and to close up their
defences. The partial breathing of an instant ensued, during which
Douglas looked eagerly for Hotspur, and at length having descried him
over the pales—
“By St. Andrew,” he cried, rising in his stirrups, and again waving the
captured pennon high in the air, “I have good reason, Harry Piersie, to
be thankful for the glorious issue of this bicker. Trust me, I value
this pennon of thine above all the spoil of Newcastle, nay, or of an
hundred such towns. I shall bear it with me into Scotland, fair Sir, in
token of our encounter; and in remembrance of thy prowess, I do promise
thee it shall grace the proudest pinnacle of my Castle of Dalkeith.”
“Be assured, Douglas,” replied Piersie courteously, though with
manifest signs of great vexation, “ye shall not bear it over the
Border; nay, ye shall not pass the bounds of this county till ye be met
withal in such wise that ye shall make none avaunte thereof.”
“Well, brave Sir,” replied the Earl of Douglas, “it shall be set up
before my pavilion this night; so come thither to seek for thy pennon,
and take it thence if thou canst; till then, farewell.”
The Lord Douglas turned away, proudly bearing his trophy; and the night
was now approaching, and all hopes of succeeding in the assault being
at an end, he ordered the retreat to be sounded, and collecting his
forces, he retired behind his trenches.
The Scottish troops were no sooner withdrawn than Hotspur, smarting
under the stinging disgrace of the loss of his pennon, summoned a
council of war, in which he bravely proposed to lead on the English
troops to a night attack against the Scottish entrenchments. This
proposition was warmly supported by Sir Rafe Piersie, who participated
largely in his brother’s injured feelings; but an opinion prevailing
among the English knights that the Earl of Douglas’s party was but the
Scottish vanguard, and that the large army, of which they had heard so
much, was hovering at no great distance, ready to avail itself of any
imprudent step they might take, very generally opposed his wishes.
“Sir,” said the prudent Seneschal of York, who was present, and who
seemed to speak as the organ of the rest, “there fortuneth in war
oftentimes many chances. Another day thou mayest gain greater advantage
of Earl Douglas than he hath this day won of thee. Let us not peril the
cause of England for a paltry pennon, when the power of Scotland is
abroad. Who knoweth but this empty skirmish of theirs may be a snare to
lure us out to destruction? Better is it to lose a pennon than two or
three hundred brave knights and squires, and to lay our country at the
mercy of these invading foemen.”
Though some of the young and impetuous, and even the old Sir Walter de
Selby, showed symptoms of being disposed to support the plan proposed
by the Hotspur, yet this prudent counsel was so generally applauded,
that, though boiling inwardly with indignation at their apathy, he was
compelled to yield with the best face he could, while his lip was
visibly curled with a smile of ineffable contempt for what he
considered their pusillanimity.
“What a hollow flock of craven pullets, brother Rafe!” said he, giving
way to a burst of passionate vexation after the council had broke up,
and they were left alone. “What, a paltry pennon, saidst thou, Sir
Seneschal? May thy tongue be blistered for the word! Depardieux, were
it not unwise to stir up evil blood among us at such a time, I would
make him eat it, old as he is, and difficult as he might find the
digestion of it. Oh, is’t not bitter penance, brother Rafe, for falcons
such as we are to be mewed up with such a set of grey geese? By Heaven,
it is enough to brutify the noble spirit we do inherit from our sires.
What will the Douglas, I pr’ythee, think of Harry Hotspur, now that
after all his vaunts he cometh not out to-night to give him the
camisado in his tent, and to pluck his pennon from the disgraceful soil
in the which it doth now grow so vilely? But, by St. George, though I
should be obliged to go with no more than our vassals, I will catch the
Douglas ere he quits Northumberland, and I will have my pennon again or
die in the taking of it.”
The Douglas was well prepared to give Harry Piersie a welcome had
circumstances enabled him to have paid his visit to the Scottish camp
before they broke up from Newcastle. The sentinels were so stationed
that the whole army would have been alarmed and under arms in a few
minutes. His sleep was therefore as sound as if he had been in his own
Castle of Dalkeith, though he slept in his armour, that he might be
ready to meet the foe on the first rouse.
“Well, my trusty esquires,” said he to Robert Hart and Simon
Glendinning, as they came to wait on him in the morning, “doth Harry
Piersie’s pennon still flutter where these hands did place it
yesternight?”
“Yea, my good Lord,” replied Glendinning, “thy challenge hath gone
unheeded.”
“Nay, then, we bide no longer for him here,” said Douglas; “an he will
have it now, he must come after us to take it. Are my Lords Moray and
Dunbar astir?”
“They are, my Lord,” replied Hart.
“Go to them, then, Robert, and tell them, that with their leave we
shall march anon. But, by St. Andrew, there shall be no appearance of
unseemly haste. Let the sun, that saw the Piersie’s pennon planted
yesternight ere he did go to bed, be suffered to look upon it for some
time after he be well risen again, so that we may not be accused of
being more dexterous in carrying off our prey than bold in defending
it.”
The little Scottish army broke up from their encampment with as much
composure as if they had been in a friendly country, and marched
leisurely off with loud cheers. Harry Piersie was on the wall, and his
blood boiled at the very sound.
“By the holy St. Cuthbert, they mock me,” cried he, his face flushing
with anger; “ay, an well may they too,” continued he, striking his
forehead. “Oh, I could leap over these walls from very despite. By the
mass, their numbers are naught; see how small their columns appear;
already the last of them are gone; oh, is it not enow to drive me to
madness!”—and, dashing his mailed foot to the ground, he turned away to
gnaw his nails with vexation.
After taking two or three turns with his brother along the rampart, he
suddenly called for an esquire, and ordered him to procure some
intelligent scouts; to these he gave orders to follow the Scottish line
of march, and to bring him frequent and accurate intelligence of their
numbers, their route, and all their actions; and, having taken this
precaution, he and Sir Rafe Piersie continued to pace the walls by
themselves, giving vent, from time to time, to their indignation and
disappointment, in abrupt sentences addressed to each other. During
that day and the evening following it, large reinforcements of troops
poured into Newcastle, from different quarters of the circumjacent
country; and the stronger Hotspur found himself, the more impatient he
became to make use of his strength.
“Ay, ay, see where they come; see where they come, brother Rafe,” said
he in a pettish tone. “But what come they for, an we have them not in
the field? Depardieux, from the careless guise and strutting gait of
some of these butter-headed burghers, and clod-pated churls, meseems as
if they came more to parade it in a fair than to fight.”
“If we can but get them once into the field,” said Sir Rafe Piersie,
“by all that is good, we shall teach the knaves another bearing and
another step.”
“Ay, marry, would that we but had them in the field, indeed,” replied
Hotspur; “the very smell of battle hath a marvellous virtue in it, and
doth oftentimes convert the veriest dolt into a hero. Of such fellows
as these men, one might make rare engines for recovering a lost pennon,
yea, as of finer clay. Would we but had them fit the proof. But a
plague upon these cautious seniors of the council, methinks my patience
was miraculous; nay, in truth, most miraculous, to hear that old
driveller talk of my paltry pennon, and not to dash my gauntlet in his
teeth for the word.”
“Nay, I could hardly keep my hands down,” cried Sir Rafe Piersie.
“Methinks our blood must be cooling, or else even his age should have
been no protection.”
“’Tis better as it is, Rafe,” replied Hotspur; “but why tarry these
scouts of mine? I shall fret me to death ere they return. Why are we
not blessed with the power of seeing what doth pass afar off? Had I
this faculty, how would mine eyes soar over the Douglas and my pennon!”
In such talk as this the brothers wasted great part of the night. The
impatient Hotspur was kept in suspense until next morning, when, much
to his relief, the arrival of the wearied scouts was announced to him.
He ordered them instantly into his presence, and having closely
interrogated them, he soon gathered from them all the intelligence he
wanted.
The Earl of Douglas had marched slowly and circumspectly, and although
his little army had sufficiently marked his course, by plundering and
burning whatever came in its way, the troops had not been suffered to
spread far to the right or left. They halted at Pontland, and took and
burnt the town and castle, making prisoner of Sir Aymer de Athele, who
defended it. Thence they marched to Otterbourne, where they encamped,
apparently with the intention of besieging the castle of that name next
day. The scouts also brought certain information that the Scots did not
amount to more than three thousand men-at-arms, and three or four
hundred lances, and that the main body of the army was nowhere in the
neighbourhood, but still lying indolently on the Western Marches. Full
of these particulars, Hotspur, with a bounding heart, again summoned
the council of war, and bringing in his scouts, he made them tell their
own story.
“What say ye now, gentlemen?” cried he with a triumphant air; “was I
right, or not? By the Rood, I was at least wrong to listen to the cold
caution of some few frozen heads here; for, an I mistake not the
general voice of the council yesterday was with me. We mought have
spared these Scots many a weary mile of march, I ween. By St. George,
they were a mere handful for us, a mere handful; not a man of them
should have escaped us; ay, and such a price should they have paid for
the ruin they have wrought on these fine counties, that Scotland should
have quaked for a century at the very thought of setting foot across
the Border.”
“Frozen heads, didst thou say, Sir Harry Piersie?” demanded the
Seneschal of York calmly; “methinks that thy meaning would be to accuse
those frozen heads of being leagued with frozen hearts; but let me tell
thee, Hotspur, where snow is shed on the poll we may look for a cool
judgment; and if a cool, then probably a wise judgment.”
“Pshaw!” said Hotspur, half aside to his brother; “this fusty utterer
of worn-out saws and everyday wisdom goadeth me beyond all bearing; yet
must I temper mine answer. Trust me, I meant not to impeach thine
ordinary judgment, Sir Seneschal,” continued he aloud, “though I do
think that it did for once err grievously in our yesterday’s council.
But let us not talk of this. I am now here to tell ye, gentlemen, that,
by the faith I owe to God, and to my Lord my father, go who list with
me, I shall now go seek for my pennon, and give Lord Douglas the
camisado this night at Otterbourne; yea, by St. George, though I should
do it without other aid than that of my brother Rafe, and the faithful
vassals of the Piersie. What, am I to put up, think ye, with the loss
of my pennon, and the disgrace of our house and name? By heaven, though
it were but a hair’s-breadth of the hem of my Lady’s mantle, the
Douglas should not carry it into Scotland. But if disgrace doth attend
the losing of Hotspur’s pennon, depardieux, let it be borne by those
who, calling themselves his friends, will not yield him their help to
retake it; for Hotspur is resolved to wipe off shame from himself—he
will follow his pennon to the Orcades, yea, pluck it from their most
northern cape, or fall in the attempt. Disgrace shall never cleave to
Hotspur.”
“No, nor to Rafe Piersie neither,” cried his brother. “Let those who
fear to follow stay at home. We shall on together, hand in hand, and
seize the pennon, though grim death held its shaft; yea, paltry as it
may be thought, it shall be the sun on whose beams our dying eyes shall
close. Let us on then.”
The loud murmurs of applause which arose from among the younger knights
manifested how much they sympathized with the feelings of the Piersies.
But the old Seneschal of York again put in his word of prudence.
“Gentlemen,” said he, “I see that, in speaking as I must do, I shall
have but few to agree with me, yet must I natheless freely speak my
mind, more especially as I do perceive that those knights who, like
myself, have seen more years of warfare than the rest, do seem disposed
to think with me. I must confess, that, albeit some potent reasons do
now cease to war with your opinion, mine is but little altered. Meseems
it still is an especial risk to move so far from garrison after an
uncertain enemy, for a mere shred of silk and gold.”
“A shred of silk and gold!” exclaimed Sir Walter de Selby. “What, dost
thou not think that all England is disgraced by this triumph of the
Scottish Douglas over the Hotspur? And dost thou regard nought but the
shred of silk and gold? Talk not of the old ones, I pray thee, Sir
Seneschal of York. Trust me, old as is Sir Walter de Selby, he shall
never rest idle whilst gallant deeds are adoing to wipe off a foul
stain from the name of England. Be it death or victory, he shall have
his share on’t.”
“Thy hand, my brave old soldier,” cried both the Piersies at once.
“Thou shalt go with us,” exclaimed Hotspur; “though thine years might
have well excused thee leaving thine own Castle of Norham, yet hast
thou come hither; yea, and thou shalt now forward with us to the field,
were it but to show how the noble fire of a warlike soul may burn
through the thickest snows of age.”
“Nay, then,” said the Seneschal of York, “thou shalt see, Sir Harry
Piersie, that albeit I do advise caution, yet shall I do my part as
well as others, when my words do cease to avail aught; yet would I fain
have thee tarry until thou art joined by the Bishop of Durham, who is
looked for with his force this night.”
“What, while we can muster eight thousand good soldiers without him,
and six hundred gallant lances? Shall we wait for the Bishop, and so
permit the Scots to ’scape from our vengeance? Nay, nay, let’s to
horse, my brave friends; my heart swells at the thought of reaping so
glorious a field. Let’s to horse without delay, if your blood be
English.”
Hotspur’s call was hailed with loud approval, and the brave though
cautious Seneschal, seeing that it was in vain to urge more, joined
heartily with the rest in getting the army under arms, and in hastening
the march.
The Scots had begun to sound their bugles at an early hour that
morning, and to assault the Castle of Otterbourne, and they wasted the
whole of the day in unsuccessful attempts against it. A council of war
being held in the evening, it was found that there were cautious heads
among the Scotch as well as among the English knights. Some of those
who spoke were of opinion that they should abandon all further attempts
against the Castle, and march forward towards Scotland. But the Earl of
Douglas opposed this.
“What, my brave Lords and Knights of Scotland,” cried he with energy,
“would ye give Harry Piersie cause to say that we have stolen this
pennon of his? Let us not creep away with it like thieves in the dark;
nay, rather let us show these Southerns that we do earnestly covet
their promised visit to us. Let us, I pray ye, tarry here for some two
or three days at least; we shall find occupation enough in beleaguering
and taking of this Castle hard by, the which is assuredly pregnable to
bold and persevering men, and will yield us the more honour that it be
strong. Then shall Hotspur have leisure to bethink himself how he may
best come to fetch his pennon; and if it should so list him to come,
depardieux, he may take my banner too, if he can.”
The old and the cautious hardly in secret approved this counsel; but so
much was the heroic Douglas the idol of all, that his wishes were of
themselves enough to determine the resolution of those who heard him.
Measures were accordingly taken for securing the army against surprise,
and for rendering their camp as strong as circumstances would allow;
and seeing that they were to remain for so much longer a time than they
at first imagined, the soldiers hastily threw up huts, composed of sods
and branches of trees, to give them better shelter. The baggage-wains
and baggage, with the wainmen, sutlers, and other followers of the
army, were stationed so as to block up the approach to the camp; and
their position was so defended by morasses and woods, flanking it on
either side, as to render it almost unassailable. At some distance from
this, the troops were encamped on the slope of a hill, and the wooded
rising grounds on either hand contributed to form defences which left
it open to attack nowhere but in front, and even there only after the
outwork formed by the baggage at a distance in the meadow below should
be broken through.
Earl Douglas said little to those around him, but made his various
dispositions with the cool and skilful eye of an expert commander. He
surveyed the ground with thoughtful attention, as the sun was setting
bright on the hill. It glanced upon Piersie’s pennon, that fluttered as
if idly impatient of its captivity beside the large banner of Scotland,
the heavy drapery of which, drooping to the ground in ample folds, hung
in silent and majestic dignity, unruffled by the gentle evening breeze.
He thought on the Hotspur and his threats—on the violence and impotence
of man’s passions—on the actual insignificance of the object which had
so stirred up himself and Harry Piersie, compared with the number and
value of the lives of those who might soon be called on to fight for it
to the death. He mused on the peaceful quiet that now hung over the
scene, and of the change that in a few short hours it might undergo; on
the change, above all, that might affect many of those brave hearts
which were now beating high with the pulses of life, eager to return to
their native soil, and to fulfil schemes of future happiness, never,
perhaps, to be realized.
“There is something solemn and grand in the stillness of this lovely
evening,” said the Douglas at last to the Earl of Moray, who was with
him. “The parting radiance of day in yonder western sky might make us
fancy that the earth was yblent with heaven. Why might we not pass to
that long-wished-for country on those slanting rays of glory, without
intervening death, or the penitential pains of purgatory?”
“’Tis a whimsical conceit, brother,” replied Moray with a smile; “but
why, I pray thee, are thy thoughts so employed at a time like this?”
“I will tell thee,” said Douglas gravely. “I know not why it is, but my
memory hath been at this time visited by the recollection of a strange
dream I once had, and which, long forgotten, doth now arise to me
afresh with all its circumstances. Methought I was sitting on a hill
side, when, all at once, I beheld a furious battle on the plain of the
valley below. One side was led by a figure the which I was conscious
bore striking resemblance to mine own. He rushed to the fight, but was
quickly pierced with three lances at once, and fell dead on the field.
Dismay began to fasten on his army, and defeat appeared certain, when
the dead corpse of the knight arose, and, towering to a height ten-fold
greater than it had when alive, moved with the solemn step of the grave
towards the foe. The shout of victory arose from those who were about
to yield, and their enemies were dispersed like chaff before the wind,
when the giant figure and all vanished from my fancy’s eye.”
“Strange!” cried Moray, his attention grappled by this singular
communication from the Douglas.
“Thou canst never believe me to be a driveller, Moray,” continued
Douglas, without noticing his brother-in-law’s interruption, “far less
one whom the approach of death may affright. Death must succeed life,
as the night doth follow the day, and we who can know little how much
of our day is gone, must be prepared to couch as decently when and
where the night doth overtake us.”
“Nay, Douglas,” said Moray, again interrupting him, “I well wot that
those grave sayings of thine are anything but the offspring of a
quailing heart; I know that they are begotten by thy dauntless and
well-grounded courage that doth accustom itself to survey death at all
times, in thought as well as in field, till thou has converted his grim
image into the familiar figure of a friend. Yet why should such
thoughts find harbour with thee now? Harry Piersie, if he do come at
all for his pennon, will hardly be here to-night.”
“I think not of the Piersie,” said Douglas, taking Moray’s hand, and
warmly pressing it between his, while a tear glistened in his manly
eye, “I think not of the Piersie or his pennon; but promise me now,
when mine hour hath come, and I shall have gloriously fallen in battle,
as I well trust may be my fate, that thou wilt yield thine especial
protection, and thy love and cherisaunce, to my widowed Margaret. I
need not tell thee what she hath been to me. Our brother-in-law Fife is
cold, and calculating, and politic, yea, and heartless. He doth aim at
the Regency, and he will doubtless gain his end. Margaret is his
much-loved sister while she is the proud wife of Douglas; but trust me,
little of her brother’s sunshine will fall upon her widow’s weeds. Be
it thine, then, to be her prop and comfort. I well know that the warmth
of thy Margery’s love will go hand in hand with thee. I am a man,
Moray—we are both men—why should we be ashamed of a few tears shed at a
moment like this?”
“Nay, but Douglas, why shouldst thou talk thus?” said Moray. “Fate may
call for my life first, and then thou wilt have those duties to perform
for Margery the which thou dost now claim from me for her sister.”
“Nay,” replied Douglas, with ominous seriousness of aspect. “Yet be it
so,” said he, after a pause; “do thou but listen to my sad humour. Mine
attached Lundie doth well deserve thy care; see that he do meet with
that advancement his piety to God and his devotion to me hath so well
merited. And then as for my gallant Archibald, my brave esquires Hart
and Glendinning, and my faithful shield-bearer Hop Pringle, they have
already carved out a shining reputation for themselves; yet do thou
never let it be forgotten that they have been faithful followers of the
Douglas.”
“Canst thou believe that the name of Douglas can ever lose its potent
charm?” exclaimed the Earl of Moray with energy, yet deeply affected;
“or canst thou doubt that to me thy will must ever be a sacred law? But
why should we now talk of matters so sad?” continued he, endeavouring
to rally his own spirits as well as those of Douglas; “the banquet doth
abide us in thy pavilion yonder, and the lords and knights of Scotland
do doubtless wait for thee there, in obedience to thine invitation.”
“I had forgotten,” said Douglas, resuming his usual cheerful
countenance. “Let us then attune our spirits to mirth and joyous manly
converse, sith we have discussed these melancholy themes. Allons, let
us to the banquet—such banquet as the rude cookery of the field may
furnish.”
It was at this time that Rory Spears, having collected a little knot of
friends about him, thus addressed them—
“Captain MacErchar, and you most worthy esquires, Masters Mortimer Sang
and Roger Riddel, yea, and you, brave Robin Lindsay and Ralpho
Proudfoot, and the rest, who are nobly ettling to rise by your deeds as
others hae done afore ye—ahem—panting after that most honourable honour
and dignified dignity of an esquire, I do hereby invite ye all to go
down wi’ me to the baggage-camp and sutlerages, whaur we may find
comfortable and cozy houf in a braw new bigget sodden hostel, yereckit
for the accommodation o’ Dame Margaret MacCleareye’s yill-barrels and
yill-customers, and there, at my proper expense, to eat the bit supper
I bid her prepare as I came up the hill, and to drink till ye hae weel
wet the honours, the which, descending on mine unworthy head from the
gallant Hotspur (whose health we shall not fail to drink, albeit we may
yet hope to hae the cleaving o’ his skull), have been approven of by
our noble Lord of Douglas, and by mine especial dear Lord of Moray, for
both of whom we are not only bound to drink to the dead, but to fight
to the dead.”
“Oich, hoich, Maister Spears, surely, surely—he, he, he!” cried
MacErchar.
“Bravo, Master Spears, I shall willingly go with thy squireship,” cried
Sang; “nay, and never trust me an I do not my best honour to thine
entertainment.”
“Squire Spears, I am thine,” cried Roger Riddel; and the rest all
heartily joining in ready acquiescence in his invitation, they followed
Rory joyously down the hill in a body.