The Battle at Otterbourne.
Rory Spears was presiding with joyous countenance over the supper to
which he had invited his friends—the more solid part of the
entertainment had been discussed—and the ale jug had already performed
several revolutions, to the great refreshment and restoration of the
strength of those who partook of it, when the jovial companions were
suddenly disturbed in their revelry by a very unusual cry from some of
the sentinels posted along the line of entrenchment that protected the
baggage-camp. The hilarious esquires and men-at-arms were silenced in
the midst of their mirth, and sat looking at one another with eyes of
inquiry. But they sat not long so, for the cry was repeated, and ran
rapidly along the chain of sentinels.
“By St. Lowry, it’s the English, as I’m a Christian man!” cried Rory
Spears. “My troth, it was maist ceevil of the chields to wait till we
had souped; natheless, it erketh me to think that they carried not
their courtesy so far as to permit us to drink but ae ither can. Yet,
by the Rood, we shall have at it. Here, Mrs. MacCleareye—d’ye hear,
guidwife?”
“Phut, tut!—oich, hoich!—fye, fye, let us awa, Maister Spears,” cried
Duncan MacErchar. “Troth, she’ll no wait for us, the Southron loons.”
“Hark again,” cried Sang; “by all that is good, they will be in on us
in the twinkling of an eye.”
“Let’s out on them, then, without further talk,” cried Rory,
brandishing his battle-axe. “Troth, I wad maybe hae had mair mercy on
them an they had gi’en us but time for ae ither stoup; but as it is,
let’s at them, my friends, and let them take care o’ their heads.”
“Pay for the supper and yill, Master Spears,” cried Mrs. MacCleareye,
thrusting herself forward.
“This is no time, woman, to settle sike affairs,” cried Rory.
“Better now, I trow, than after thou art amortized by the sword o’ some
Southron thrust through thy stomach, Master Spears,” said Mrs.
MacCleareye. “Pay to-day, I pray thee, and have trust to-morrow.”
“Nay, of a truth, we have no time to stand talking to thee, good
woman,” cried Rory impatiently; “had it been to drink mair yill,
indeed, I mought hae tholed it; but, holy St. Barnabas, an thou dost
keep us much longer there will be guests in thy hut who will drain thy
casks without filling thy pockets. Let me past: Rory Spears’ word,
though that of ane esquire only, is as sicker as that o’ the best
knight in the land. Thou shalt be paid after the scrimmage. Nay, I’ll
no die, woman, till thou be’st paid, so fear thee not—and stand out o’
my gate, I tell thee.”
With a turn of his wrist, Rory shoved Mrs. MacCleareye aside. She was
jostled by Sang, who followed; and her round and rolling person was
fairly run down by MacErchar, who was pressing hastily after them. The
rest sprang impetuously over her. The cries now came more distinctly
upon them, mingled with the clash of weapons.
“The English, the English!—Piersie!—The English!” were the words now
distinguishable.
“To the trenches, my friends; not a moment is to be lost,” cried
Mortimer Sang.
“Blow, blow!” cried Roger Riddel; and Rory putting to his mouth an old
hunting bugle that hung from his shoulder, blew a shrill and potent
blast, that awakened the very echoes of the hills.
“Let us disperse ourselves through the baggage-lines, and rouse up the
wainmen and varlets, and the other camp followers,” cried Rory Spears,
after taking the bugle from his mouth.
“Thou art right, Rory,” said Sang; “we may do much to support the
guard. Let Riddel, and I, and some others, hasten to the entrenchments,
to keep up spirit among those who may now be fighting, with the hope of
speedy aid, and do thou and the rest quickly gather what force ye may,
and straightway bring them thither. The point of assault is narrow. If
we can keep back the foe, were it but until the main body of the army
be alarmed, should our lives be the forfeit, they would be bravely
spent, for we might be the saving of Scotland’s honour this night.”
“Ralpho Proudfoot, companion of my youth,” cried Robert Lindsay,
kindly, “we have striven together for many a prize; now let our
struggle be for glory.”
“Away, away,” cried Sang; and he and Riddel sprang off to the trenches,
followed by Lindsay and Proudfoot, whilst Rory hied him away at the
head of the others, all blowing their horns, and shouting loudly
through the lines, as if the whole Scottish array had been there, and
ready to turn out. The huts were soon deserted. Such as they met with
in their way they collected together, and armed as fast as they could
with whatever weapons lay nearest to hand; and in a very short time
these few intelligent and active heads had assembled a force, neither
very numerous nor very well appointed, it is true, but, when headed by
men so determined, amply sufficient to defend a narrow pass between
marches for a considerable time, especially against assailants who were
awed by the conviction, favoured by the darkness, that they were
attacking the camp where the whole Scottish army were lodged.
While things were in this state in the baggage camp, the banquet in the
pavilion of Lord Douglas was going on with all that quiet and elegant
cheerfulness of demeanour beseeming a party chiefly composed of the
very flower of Scottish chivalry. The talk was of the love of the
ladies, and the glories of tilts and tournaments. Sir Patrick Hepborne
was seated between Sir John Halyburton and Sir William de Dalzel. With
the former of these knights he recalled some of the circumstances of
their friendly meeting at Tarnawa, and the Lady Jane de Vaux was not
forgotten between them. Sir William de Dalzel changed the theme to that
of the challenge which had passed between the Lord Welles and Sir David
Lindsay. Then Sir David Lindsay himself and several others joining in
the conversation, it gradually became general around the board. Sir
William de Keith, the Marischal of Scotland, displayed his consummate
learning on the subject of such challenges between knights; and Sir
John de Gordon, Lord of Strathbolgy; Sir John Montgomery; Sir Malcolm
Drummond, brother-in-law to the Douglas, as well as to the Scottish
champion, who was the person most concerned in the debate; Sir
Alexander Fraser of Cowie, and many others, spoke each of them ably as
to particular points. The Douglas himself then delivered his judgment
with clearness and precision, and the attention with which his words
were listened to showed how valuable they were esteemed by those who
heard them. After this topic was exhausted, the Earl was indefatigable
in ministering to the entertainment of his guests by ingeniously
drawing forth the powers of those around him; and his deportment was in
every respect so much more than ordinarily felicitous, and so perfectly
seasoned by graceful condescension, that all at table agreed he never
had charmed them more, and that, as he was the hardiest warrior of all
in the field, and the most resistless lance in the lists, so was he by
far the most accomplished and witty chevalier at the festive board.
The rational happiness of the evening was approaching its height, and
the Douglas was occupying universal attention by something he was
saying, when, to the surprise of every one, he suddenly stopped in the
middle of his sentence, and turned up his ear to listen.
“Methought I heard a bugle-blast from the baggage lines,” cried he,
with a flash in his eye that denoted the utter extinction of every
other thought but that of the enemy.
“Perdie, I did hear it also,” cried the Earl of Moray; “nor was it
strange to me. Methought I did recognize it for one of Rory Spears’
hunting-mots. He doth feast his friends to-night at the sutlerage, in
honour of his newly-acquired squireship; so, peraunter, he doth give
them music with their ale.”
“Ha, heard ye that?” cried several of the knights at once.
“Nay, there be more performers than one there,” cried the Douglas,
rising quickly to gain the outside of the pavilion, whilst the whole of
the knights crowded after him.
“’Tis dark as a sightless pit,” cried some of them.
“Yea,” cried the Earl of Douglas; “but dost thou see those lights that
hurry about yonder? Trust me, there is some stirring cause for the
quickness of their motions.”
“Hark ye, I hear distant and repeated cries,” said the Earl of Dunbar.
“Hark, a horse comes galloping up the hill. Hear ye how he snorts and
blows? I’ll warrant the rider hath hot news to tell.”
“The English!—the English in the baggage-camp!—Piersie and the
English!” cried the rough voice of a wainman, who made towards the
light in the pavilion, mounted on a bare-backed and unharnessed
wain-horse, that heaved its great sides as if it would have burst them.
“Arm, arm, chevaliers,” cried the Douglas in a voice like thunder; “arm
ye in haste, and turn out your brave bands without a moment’s let. Mine
arms—mine arms, my faithful esquires. My horse, my horse!”
All was now hurry, bustle, and jostling; cries, orders, oaths, and
execrations arose everywhere. Horses were neighing, and steel was
clashing, and every one tried to buckle on his armour as fast as he
could. Meanwhile Douglas, with Moray near him, stood calm and
undismayed, putting one question after another rapidly to the varlet
who brought the alarm, until he had gained all the information he could
expect from him.
“By the Rood, but thy new esquire Rory Spears hath well demeaned
himself, brother Moray,” said Douglas. “He and those with him have done
that the which shall much avail us if we but bestir ourselves. Let us
arm then, and get the line formed. I did well mark the ground, my
friend. By skirting the woods upon our right, and if the moon will but
keep below the hill-tops long enow, we shall steal down unseen upon the
enemy, and pour out our vengeance on his defenceless flank. May St.
Andrew grant that thy gallant squire may but keep his own until then.
Haste, haste, Glendinning. Where is Robert Hop Pringle, my brave
shield-bearer? Haste thee, Hart, mine arms and my horse. Ha,
Archibald,” cried he to a young man of noble carriage who was passing
him at the moment; “get thee my standard, my son; thou shalt bear my
jamais arriere to-night. Part with it not for thy life; and bastard
though thou be’st, show thyself at least to be no counterfeit Douglas.
Quit it not even in death, boy.”
From time to time the shouts of the combatants now came faintly up the
hill-side, and hurried those hands that were busily engaged in arming,
so that many a buckle was put awry, and many a tag was left to hang
loose. The Douglas staid not to complete his harnessing, but sprang
into his saddle ere he was half armed, while Lord Moray rode away to
his post without discovering that he had forgotten to put his helmet
on.
The night still continued extremely dark, and had not Lord Douglas
taken accurate note of the ground below him whilst the light of the sun
had shone upon it, he must have found it almost impracticable to have
led his men on, notwithstanding that his ears were admonished by the
din of the distant skirmish, and the discordant braying of at least
five hundred bullocks’ horns, blown by the varlets and wainmen who were
not engaged; for such were in those days always carried by the Scottish
soldiers, and Rory Spears had taken care that all who could not fight
should at least blow, that the extent of their force might appear the
greater to the enemy.
The Douglas conducted his little army with great silence and
circumspection through the skirting brushwood; and it so happened, that
just as he approached the place of action, the full-orbed moon arose to
run her peaceful and majestic course through a clear and cloudless sky,
throwing a mimic day over the scene. Loud shouts arose from the
powerful army of the English, for now they began to comprehend the
actual situation of their affairs; and making one bold and determined
charge, they burst at once through the whole breadth of the
entrenchments, overwhelming all who attempted to stand before them. Now
it was that the Scottish Earl gave the word to his men, and just as the
English were pushing rapidly on towards the slope of the high ground
where the Scottish camp hung glittering in the moonbeam, driving a
handful of brave men before them, who were still fighting as they
retired, the shout of
“Douglas!—Douglas!—Scotland!—Scotland!—Douglas!—Jamais arriere?”
ascended to Heaven, and the determined Scots poured from their covert
out upon the open plain, and rushed against the troops of Piersie.
Confounded by this unexpected charge from an enemy whom they expected
to find asleep in their tents, the English army was driven back in
considerable dismay. Then might Harry Piersie and his brother Sir Rafe
have been seen flying from standard to standard vainly endeavouring to
rally their men; but it was not until they had been driven into the
open ground that they could succeed in stopping what almost amounted to
a flight.
“What, Englishmen—is this your mettle?” cried Hotspur with vehemence.
“Fly, then, cowards, and leave Harry Piersie to die. He may not outlive
this disgrace on the standards of St. George.”
These upbraiding words had the effect of checking their panic, and gave
them time to observe the comparatively small body to whom they were so
basely yielding. The two brothers quickly restored the battle by their
daring example. Deafening cheers arose, shouts of “Piersie” and “St.
George” being loudly mingled with them; and a fresh and very impetuous
onset was made, that drove the Scottish troops entirely through their
entrenchments. The struggle was now tremendous, and the clash of the
Scottish axes was terrific; but, although the success of the English
wavered a little now and then, yet the weight of their mass was so very
superior, that the Scottish army lost ground inch by inch, till, after
a long contest, the Piersie found himself almost at the Scottish tents.
“Piersie!—Piersie!—The pennon of the Piersie!” cried he, shrieking with
the wildest joy, and sanguine with the hope of success; while backed by
a band of his choicest warriors, he made a bold dash towards the
standard of Scotland, that stood before the pavilion of Douglas, with
the pennon beside it. The Douglas was at that time fighting in another
part of the field, where the press against his men was greatest. The
Earls of Moray and Dunbar were bravely striving to withstand the
numbers that came against the respective wings they commanded,
supported by Montgomery, Keith, Fraser, and many others. Assueton,
though but half recovered from the bruise he had received at Newcastle,
and Halyburton, Lindsay, and some others were doing their best to
resist the tide of the English in those parts of the battle where
fortune had thrown them. Sir William de Dalzel had been carried to his
tent grievously wounded to the loss of an eye; and already had the
brave Sir Malcolm Drummond, and the gallant Sir John de Gordon, Lord of
Strathbolgy, fallen, covered by glorious wounds. Yet was not the
standard of Scotland, nor the Piersie’s captive pennon, left altogether
undefended; for before them stood the dauntless Sir Patrick Hepborne of
Hailes the elder, with his son by his side, backed by a small but
resolute band of their own immediate dependents.
“My brave boy,” cried the elder knight, “trust me there is nowhere in
the field a more honourable spot of earth to die on than that where we
do now stand.”
“Then we quit it not with life, my father, save to drive the Piersie
before us,” cried his son.
“Piersie—Piersie!—Piersie’s pennon!—Hotspur’s pennon!” cried those who
came furiously on to attack them.
The father and the son, with their little phalanx, remained immovable,
and, receiving them on the point of their lances, an obstinate and
bloody contest took place. Harry Piersie and his brother fought for the
fame of their proud house, and their eager shouts were heard over all
the other battle cries, as well as above the clashing of the weapons
and the shrieking of the agonized wounded, as they were trodden under
foot and crushed to death by the press; but the bulwark of lion hearts
that defended the standard was too impregnable to be broken through.
Piersie’s men already began to slacken in their attack, and to present
a looser and wider circle to the Scottish band; and now the elder Sir
Patrick Hepborne, seeing his time, and eager to catch his advantage,
brandished a battle-axe, and his son following his example, they joined
in the cry of “A Hepborne, a Hepborne!” and charged the enemy so
furiously at the head of their men, that Piersie and his followers were
driven down the slope with immense slaughter. The axes of the bold
knight and his son never fell without the sacrifice of an English life.
“A Hepborne, a Hepborne!” they cried from time to time, and “A
Hepborne, a Hepborne!” was returned to them from those who ran together
to their banner; and yet more and more of the English line gave way
before the accumulating aid that crowded after Sir Patrick and his son,
who went on gradually recovering the lost ground, by working prodigies
of valour.
Whilst the Hepbornes were so manfully exerting their prowess in one
part of the field, the Douglas was toiling to support the battle where
it was most hopeless. The great force of the enemy had been
accidentally directed to the point where he fought, although they knew
not against whom they were moving. The dense body opposed to him so
encumbered him, that his men were unable to stand before it, and defeat
seemed to be inevitable. Finding himself hampered on horseback, he
retired a little back, and leaping from his horse, and summoning up his
gigantic strength, he seized an iron mace, so ponderous, that even to
have lifted it would have been a toil for almost any other individual
in the field, and, swinging it round his head, he threw himself amidst
the thickest of the foe, bearing ruin and death along with him. At
every stroke of the tremendous engine he whirled whole ranks of the
English were levelled before him, like grass by the scythe of the
mower; and he strode over the dead and dying, down a broad lane cleared
through the densest battalions that were opposed to him. Terror seized
upon the English, and they began to give back before him. On he rushed
after their receding steps, reaping a wide and terrible harvest of
death, and strewing the plain with the victims of his matchless courage
and Herculean strength. From time to time he was hardily opposed for a
few minutes by small bodies of the enemy, that closed together to meet
the coming storm, unconscious of its tremendous nature. But his
resistless arm bore away all before it, until, encountering a column of
great depth and impenetrability, the hero was transfixed by no less
than three spears at once.
One entered his shoulder between the plates of his epaulière; another,
striking on his breast-plate, glanced downwards, and pierced his belly;
and the third easily penetrated his thigh, which in his haste had been
left without the cuisse. For a moment did the wounded Douglas writhe
desperately on the lance shafts, to rid himself of their iron heads,
which had so suddenly arrested his destructive progress. But fate had
decreed that his glorious career should be terminated. He received a
severe blow on the head; his muscles, so lately full of strength and
energy of volition, now refused to obey his will, and he sank to the
ground borne down by those who had wounded him, and who knew not how
noble and how precious that life’s blood was, to which they had opened
so many yawning passages of escape.
His brother-in-law, Sir David Lindsay, and John and Walter
Saintclaires, ever the tried friends of the Douglas, and a few others
who had been fighting along with him before he thus plunged from their
sight into the midst of his foes, took advantage of the terror which
his onset had occasioned, and followed bravely in his course, until
accident led them to fall in with the stream of victorious Scots who
were pouring onwards under the triumphant Hepbornes. Recognizing each
other, and joining together with loud cheers they swept away all that
ventured to oppose them. They had cleared the plain ground of the enemy
for several bowshots before them; the English battalions had been
thinned and dispersed over the ground, and the Scottish troops were
urging after them without order, when Sir Patrick Hepborne the younger,
with Lindsay and the Saintclaires, who were pushing forward together,
saw before them the brave and good Richard Lundie, sorely wounded, yet
boldly bestriding the body of a warrior, and dealing death with a
battle-axe to every Englishman who ventured to approach within his
circle. Those who still contended with him quickly fled at their
approach, and then, to their great grief, they discovered that it was
the noble Douglas that lay weltering in his blood. He had not fallen
alone, for his faithful esquires, Simon Glendinning and Robert Hart,
lay near him both covered with mortal wounds, and already lifeless,
surrounded by heaps of the slaughtered foe. His gallant natural son,
too, the handsome Archibald Douglas, faithful to the trust reposed in
him, though severely wounded, and bleeding helplessly on the grass,
still held his banner with the grasp of death.
“How fares it with thee, Lord Douglas?” cried Sir John Saintclaire,
overwhelmed with grief at the sad spectacle before him, and hastening
to assist the others in raising him up.
“Well, right well, I trow, my good friends,” replied Douglas feebly,
“seeing that I die thus, like all my ancestors, in the field of fame.
But let not the death of Douglas be known, for ‘a dead man shall yet
gain a glorious field.’ Hide me, then, I pray thee, in yonder brake;
let some one rear my standard, the jamais arriere of the Douglas, and
let my war-cry be set up, and I promise that ye shall well revenge my
death.”
By this time the English, who had been driven for several bowshots
beyond that part of the field where the Earl of Douglas had fallen,
were now rallying under the heroic efforts of the Hotspur, who, aided
by his brother, was again cheering them on to the charge. The Scottish
troops began again to give ground before their superior force, and were
already retreating in numbers past the group who were occupied about
the dying hero. They saw the immediate necessity of conveying him away
while the ground was yet clear of the enemy, and Lundie, Lindsay, and
the two Saintclaires hastened to obey his injunctions. He uttered not a
word of complaint to tell of the agonizing tortures he felt whilst they
were removing him. They laid him on a mossy bank among the long ferns,
in the closest part of the thicket. Then he took their hands in
succession, squeezing them with affection, and when he had thus taken
leave of Lindsay and the two Saintclaires—
“Go,” said he faintly to them, “ye have done all for the Douglas that
humanity or friendship might require of ye; go, for Scotland lacketh
the aid of your arms. Leave me with Lundie; ’tis meeter for his hand to
close the eyes of his dying lord.”
The brave knights looked their last upon him, covered their eyes and
stole silently away from a scene that entirely unmanned them. Lundie
took out a silver crucifix, and, bending over the Douglas, held it up
under a stream of moonlight that broke downwards through an opening in
the thick foliage above them.
“I see it, Lundie,” said Douglas; “I see the image of my blessed
Redeemer. My sins have been many, but thou art already possessed of
them all. My soul doth fix herself on Him, in sincere repentance, and
in the strong hope of mercy through His merits.”
The affectionate Lundie knelt by the Earl’s side, and whilst his own
wounds bled copiously, his tears were dropping fast on his dying
master.
“I know thine inmost heart, Lord Douglas,” said he in a voice oppressed
by his grief; “thy hopes of Heaven may indeed be strong. Hast thou
aught of worldly import to command me?”
“Margaret,” said Douglas in a voice scarcely audible, “my dearest
Margaret! Tell Moray to forget not our last private converse; and do
thou—do thou tell my wife that my last thought, my last word
was—Margaret!”
His countenance began to change as Lundie gazed intently on it under
the moonbeam. The weeping chaplain hastily pronounced the absolution,
administered the consecrated wafer from a casket in his pocket, and
performed the last religious duties bestowed upon the dying, and the
heroic spirit of the Douglas took its flight to Heaven.
The grief of Lindsay and the Saintclaires subdued them only whilst they
beheld the noble Douglas dying. No sooner had they left the thicket
where he lay, than, burning with impatience to revenge his death, they
hurried to the field. The younger Sir Patrick Hepborne had already
reared his fallen standard, and shouts of “Douglas! Douglas! Jamais
arriere!—A Douglas! a Douglas!” cleft the very skies. At this moment
the English were gaining ground upon the Scottish centre, but this
animating cry not only checked their retreat, but brought aid to them
from all quarters. Believing that the Douglas was still fighting in
person, down came the Earl of Moray, with Montgomery, Keith, the Lord
Saltoun, Sir Thomas Erskine, Sir John Sandilands, and many others, and
the shouts of “Douglas, Douglas!” being repeated with tenfold
enthusiasm, the charge against the English was so resistless that they
yielded before Scotland in every direction. Bravely was the banner of
Douglas borne by the gallant Hepborne, who took care that it should be
always seen among the thickest of the foes, well aware that the respect
that was paid to it would always ensure it the close attendance of a
glorious band of knights as its defenders. As he was pressing furiously
on, he suddenly encountered an English knight, on whom his vigorous
arm, heated by indiscriminate slaughter, was about to descend. The
knight had lost his casque in the battle; the moon shed its radiance
over a head of snow-white hair, and an accidental demivolt of his horse
bringing his countenance suddenly into view, he beheld Sir Walter de
Selby.
“I thank God and the Virgin that thou art saved, old man,” cried
Hepborne, dropping his battle-axe “oh, why art thou here? Had I been
the innocent cause of thy death——”
He would have said more, and he would moreover have staid to see him in
safety. But the press came thick at the moment, and they were torn
asunder; so that Hepborne, losing all sight of him in the melée, was
compelled to look to himself.
And now, “A Douglas, a Douglas!” continued to run through the field,
and the English, thrown into complete confusion, were driven through
the baggage-camp at the place they had first entered, flying before the
Scottish forces. Hotspur alone stood to defend his brother, who was
lying on the ground grievously wounded. Harry Piersie had abandoned his
horse, and was standing over Sir Rafe, fighting bravely against a crowd
of Scottish men-at-arms, when Sir Hugh Montgomery, Sir John Maxwell,
and Sir William de Keith came up.
“Yield thee,” said Sir Hugh Montgomery, “yield thee, noble Hotspur. God
wot, it were bitter grief to see so brave a heart made cold.”
“And who art thou who would have the Hotspur yield?” cried Piersie.
“I trust, Sir Harry Piersie, that to yield thee to Sir Hugh Montgomery
will do thee as little dishonour as may be,” replied the Scottish
Knight; “yield thee, then, rescue or no rescue.”
“I do so yield to thee and fate, Sir Hugh Montgomery,” said Hotspur;
“but let my brother Rafe here have quick attendance, his wounds do well
out sorely, and his steel boots run over with his blood.”
“Let him be prisoner to these gentlemen,” said Sir Hugh, turning to
Keith and Maxwell, “and let us straightway convoy him to the Scottish
camp.”
The flying English were now driven far and wide, and day began to break
ere the pursuit slackened. Among those who followed the chase most
vehemently was Sir David Lindsay. Infuriated by the loss of the hero to
whom he was so devoted, he seemed to be insatiable in his vengeance.
Whilst he was galloping after the flying foe at sunrise, the rays, as
they shot over the eastern hill, were sent back with dazzling splendour
from the gold-embossed armour of a knight who had stopped at some
distance before him to slake his thirst at a fountain. He was in the
act of springing into the saddle as Lindsay approached; but the
Scottish warrior believing, from the richness of his armour, that he
was some one of noble blood, pushed after him so hard, and gained so
much upon him, that he was nearly within reach of him with his
lance-point.
“Turn, Sir Knight,” cried Lindsay. “It is a shame thus to flee. I am
Sir David Lindsay. By St. Andrew, an thou turn not, I must strike thee
through with my lance.”
But the English knight halted not; on the contrary, he only pricked on
the more furiously, and Lindsay’s keenness being but the more excited,
he followed him at full gallop for more than a league, until at last
the English knight’s horse, which had shot considerably ahead of his,
suddenly foundered under him. The rider instantly sprang to his legs,
and drew out his sword to defend himself.
“I scorn to take unfair vantage of thee, Sir Knight,” said Lindsay,
dismounting from his horse, when he came up to him, and throwing down
his lance and seizing a small battle-axe that hung at his sadle-bow, he
ran at the English knight, and a well-contested single combat ensued
between them. But the weight of Lindsay’s weapon was too much for the
sword of the Englishman; and after their strokes had rung on each
other’s arms for a time, and that the Scot had bestowed some blows so
heavy that the plates of the mail began to give way under them—
“I yield me, Sir David Lindsay,” cried the English knight, breathless
and ready to sink with fatigue; “I yield me, rescue or no rescue.”
“Ha,” replied Lindsay, “’tis well. And whom, I pray thee, mayest thou
be who has cost me so long a chase, and contest so tough, ere I could
master thee?”
“I am Sir Matthew Redman, Governor of Berwick,” replied the English
knight.
“Gramercy, Sir Governor,” said Sir David Lindsay; “sit thee down, then,
with me on this bank, and let us talk a while. We seem to be both of us
somewhat toil-spent with this encounter, yea, and thy grey destrier and
my roan do seem to have had enow on’t as well as their masters. Behold
how they feed most peaceably together.”
“Let us then imitate their example, good Sir Knight of Scotland,” said
Sir Matthew Redman. “I have a small wallet here, with some neat’s
tongue, and some delicate white bread; and this leathern bottle, though
it be small, hath a cordial in it that would put life into a dead man.”
The two foes, who had so lately endeavoured to work each other’s death,
sat down quietly together and silently partook of the refreshment, and
then alternately applying the little leathern flask to their lips, they
talked in friendly guise of the result of the battle.
“And now, Sir David of Lindsay,” said Redman, “I am thy prisoner, and
bound to obey thy will. But I have ever heard thee named as a courteous
knight, the which doth embolden me to make thee a proposal. I have a
certain lady at Newcastle, whom I do much love, and would fain see. If
thy generosity may extend so far, I shall be much beholden to thee if
thou wilt suffer me to go thither, to assure her of my safety, and to
bid her adieu; on which I do swear to thee, on the word of a knight,
that I will render myself to thee in Scotland within fifteen days
hence.”
“Nay, now I do see, Sir Matthew,” said Lindsay archly—“now I do see
right well why thou didst ride so hard from the field; but I am content
to grant thee thy request; nay, if thou dost promise me, on the faith
of a knight, to present thyself to me at Edinburgh within three weeks
from the present time, it is enow.”
“I do so promise,” replied Redman. And so shaking hands together, each
took his horse and mounted to pursue his own way.
By this time a thick morning mist had settled down on the face of the
country, and Lindsay had hardly well parted from the prisoner ere he
perceived that he had lost his way. As he was considering how he should
recover it, he beheld a considerable body of horsemen approaching, and
believing them to be some of the Scottish army who had pushed on thus
far in the pursuit, he rode up to them with very great joy; but what
was his surprise when he found himself in the midst of some three or
four hundred English lances!
“Who art thou, Sir Knight?” cried the leader, who, though clad in
armour, yet wore certain Episcopal badges about him that mightily
puzzled the Scottish knight.
“I am Sir David Lindsay,” replied he; “but whom mayest thou be, I pray
thee?”
“I am the Bishop of Durham,” replied the other; “thus far am I come to
give mine aid to the Piersie.”
“Thine aid cometh rather of the latest, Sir Bishop,” replied Lindsay;
“for, certes, his army is routed with great slaughter, and he and his
brother Sir Rafe are prisoners in the Scottish camp.”
“I have heard as much already from some of those who fled,” replied the
Bishop: “Quæ utilitas in sanguine meo? what good would my being killed
do my cousins the Piersie? Now I do haste me back again to Newcastle;
but thou must bear me company, Sir David.”
“Sith thou dost say so, my sacred Lord,” replied Sir David, “I must of
needscost obey thee, for, backed as thou art, I dare not say thee nay.
Such is the strange fortune of war.”
Sir David now rode towards Newcastle with the Bishop, and soon overtook
the large army which he commanded that was now returning thither. After
being fairly lodged within the walls of the town, the Bishop treated
him with the utmost kindness and hospitality, and left him to wander
about at his own discretion, rather like a guest than a prisoner. The
place was filled with mourning and lamentation, and every now and then
fresh stragglers, who had fled from the field of Otterbourne, were
dropping in to tell new tales of the grievous loss and mortifying
disgrace which had befallen the English arms. Murmurs began to rise
against the Bishop because he had not proceeded against the Scots, and
attempted the rescue of the Piersies. At all events, he might have
revenged their loss. The Bishop himself, too, began to be somewhat
ashamed that he should have retired so easily, and without so much as
looking on the Scottish army. At last he consented to summon a council
of war, and in it he was persuaded, by the importunity of the knights
and esquires who were present, to order immediate proclamation for the
assembling of his army, consisting of ten thousand men, to march long
before sunrise.
“Verily, our foes shall be consumed,” said the Bishop, his courage
rising. “Si consistent adversum me castra non timebit cor meum. Let the
whole Scottish force be there, yet will my heart be bold for the
encounter.”
After the council of war, the Bishop introduced Sir David Lindsay to
the guests who filled his house. The Scottish knight, so closely
connected with the Douglas, was courteously received by the English
chevaliers, who, though much cast down in reality by the failure of the
Piersies’ attempt, did their best to assume an air of gaiety before
him. They vied with one another who should show him greatest kindness.
Many were the questions put to him about the fate of the Douglas, but
he was too cautious to say anything that could lead them to believe
that he had fallen.
The ladies crowded around him to satisfy their curiosity about the
particulars of the battle, and he answered them with becoming
gallantry. Among those who so addressed him was a lady in a veil, who
hung pensively on the arm of the Bishop, and whose figure bespoke her
young and handsome. After some general conversation with him, during
which she endeavoured to ascertain from him all that he knew as to what
English knights had been killed or taken—
“Sir Knight,” said she, with a half-suppressed sigh, “I have heard of a
certain brave chevalier of Scotland who did distinguish himself in
France, Sir Patrick Hepborne, the younger of that name. Was he in the
bloody field? and hath he escaped unhurt, I pray thee?”
“I do well know him, lady,” replied Sir David Lindsay. “To him, and to
his gallant father, was chiefly due the gaining of the glorious victory
the Scots did yesternight achieve over the bravest army that did ever
take the field. I saw him safe ere I left the fight. Proud might he be,
I ween, to be so inquired after by one so lovely as thou art.”
“Nay,” said the lady, in some confusion, “I do but inquire to satisfy
the curiosity of a friend.” And so saying, she retreated towards the
protection of the Bishop of Durham, who seemed to take an especial
charge of her.
Sir David Lindsay, for his part, to avoid being annoyed by further
questions, retired within the deep recess of a Gothic window, where he
sat brooding over the untimely fate of the Douglas, and weeping
inwardly at the blow that Scotland had sustained by his loss. He was
awakened from his reverie by a friendly tap on the shoulder.
“Ha, Sir Matthew Redman!” said Lindsay, looking up with surprise.
“Sir David de Lindsay!” cried Redman, with signs of still greater
astonishment; “what, in the name of the holy St. Cuthbert, dost thou
make here at Newcastle? Hath my cordial bottle bewildered thy brain so,
that thou hast fancied that it was I who took thee, not thou who took
me? Did I not promise thee, on the word of a knight, to go to thee at
Edinburgh? and thinkest thou that I would not have kept my word?”
“Yea, Sir Matthew,” replied Lindsay, “I have full faith in thine
honour; but I believe there may now be little need that thou shouldst
journey so far, or make to me any fynaunce; for no sooner hadst thou
parted from me than I did fall into the hands of His Grace the Lord
Bishop of Durham, who hath brought me hither as his prisoner; and if ye
be so content, I do rather think we shall make an exchange, one for the
other, if it may so please the Bishop.”
“God wot how gladly I shall do so,” replied Redman, shaking him
cordially by the hand; “but, by my troth, thou shalt not go hence until
thou hast partaken of my hospitality; so thou shalt dine with me
to-day, yea, and to-morrow alswa; and then we shall talk anon with the
Bishop, after which thou shalt have good safe-conduct for Scotland;
nay, I shall myself be thy guard over the Marches, yea, and moreover,
give thee hearty cheer in mine own good town of Berwick as thou dost
pass thither.”