The King's Dogge (10 page)

‘To summarise your thinking, Francis, you believe that it is essential to destroy Skiam and his thieves in the Debateable Land before attacking the Scots. This, we have agreed in the past. But now,' and his voice shook with these words, ‘as a result of the Anderson atrocity you want to obliterate the Debateable Land completely. To achieve this, you are proposing to attack it in winter. Am I correct?'

It was not a strategy I relished, but it was my duty to our people in the West March to ensure that there could never be a repeat of the atrocity.

‘Yes.'

Broughton pulled at his straggly beard.

‘After what Skiam did to Anderson's men no one in this room is going to disagree with you. So it is only a question of how we do it.'

‘Those thieves and felons in the Debateable Land are worse than the Scots,' agreed Dick Middleton in disgust. ‘We will make your plan work, Francis.'

I turned to Edward.

‘Well?'

His blue eyes met mine.

‘Skiam's raids are the most savage,' he said simply, ‘so I agree. But as for Anderson…' His voice trailed off.

I thanked them; when they left, I let my thoughts drift back to Anderson's patrol.

Anderson's men had been late in returning, I recalled. In itself this was a concern, but not a major one. We had followed routine practice and a day later another patrol was sent out to look for them, but they found no trace of them and our worry steadily increased as subsequent searches failed to find any survivors. As we grieved them and cursed the Scots, an emaciated figure stumbled up to Carlisle's main gates. He was ragged and exhausted, indeed so unrecognisable was the man that the guards initially refused to believe that the man was whom he claimed to be. I understood their confusion as the Anderson who was brought to me was so terribly different from the man who had ridden out just a few weeks before.

His story came out incrementally. He had led his patrol out to the Bruntshields and then decided to do a sweep to the west. On the fourth day, they spotted a small number of Scots and Anderson pursued them.

They chased the Scots hard for a full half day until they came to a thick wooded area. The Scots disappeared into it, and Anderson and his men followed, but the increasing thickness of the wood, and the absence of paths, made it hard for them to keep together. After only a few moments, he had only half his force with him and had lost sight of the Scots completely. It was then that he heard shouts to his right and turned to investigate. They reached a clearing where suddenly his troop was hit by a volley of arrows coming from all directions. Almost all of the horses were hit and at least two of his men. He and the remaining eight huddled together in a crude circle, as there was no enemy in sight – only total silence.

There was another volley of arrows and Anderson saw three more of his men go down. In desperation he threw his lance and sword on to the ground. His surviving five men followed suit. The silence continued as the six of them looked nervously at the undergrowth. Slowly from all sides men in half-armour emerged with spears and swords pointing at them.

The Scots bound the six of them together and took their surrendered weapons. The Scots made sure that the men in his patrol who had been hit by arrows were definitely dead, and the survivors were marched a few hundred paces to another clearing, where they found more Scots. A burly man in a fur cloak, who seemed to be the leader, indicated with his double-sided axe the fate of the missing men of Anderson's troop. They all lay lifeless on the ground before him; some had been killed by arrows but a number had simply had their throats cut. The six remaining men were marched onward in deathly silence.

Once out of the wood, they were taken westward. Anderson estimated that they covered three or four miles in the dark. One of his men, who was wounded, found it difficult to continue, but being bound they were unable to assist him. The Scots noticed this and halted the group. The man was untied and was killed with a spear thrust to the throat. In horrified silence, the five survivors were marched on until, at length, they came to a crude settlement.

There were four or five huts; in the centre a huge fire burned. Seeing his badge of office, Anderson was separated from his four men and tied to a post by the fire. He watched, in disgust, as a group of ragged men, women and children emerged and started to strip his men of their armour and clothes. As they stripped the men, so the clamour rose and the villagers began to quarrel then fight each other for the best plunder. He watched helplessly as his men were injured in the ensuing scuffle. The Scots were like animals, as they fought one another by the light of the great fire. He was tormented by the screams from his men and he struggled ineffectually against the ropes that bound him.

There was a sudden shout and a small man came out from one of the huts, followed by the hulking figure still holding his double-sided axe. As they moved to the shivering, naked prisoners, the crowd of villagers collected the armour and clothing and scurried away. The small man looked at the remainder of Brian Anderson's troops and then came over to him. The man had cropped hair and only half of one ear. He wore a stolen English breastplate and carried a small axe. In anticipation of death, Brian braced himself and observed his executioner with contempt.

‘Your name?'

The eyes never left Anderson's face. He told him and the other man nodded.

‘I have a message for Middleton and Lovell,' he said, his eyes fixing him with a cruel stare.

‘Francis, I asked him what the message was,' muttered Brian, ‘because I was confused. The Scots would surely not be sending you messages. Then I realised that these weren't Scots, as the small man with the axe spoke in English. These were the thieves from the Debateable Land.'

‘What was the message?'

Brian Anderson buried his face in his hands and then slowly looked up.

‘He stood there for a minute just looking at me, Francis, tapping that axe of his against his legs.

‘“I think my message to Lovell will carry more impact if you watch something first,” he said to me slowly.'

There was a long silence and I feared that Anderson must have fallen back into a trance, but he suddenly leant forward and seized my arm.

‘Francis, he and the large man with the double-handed axe attacked the other prisoners,' he gasped. ‘They just kept chopping at them. They were bound; they didn't stand a chance. Their screams grew louder and louder and then the villagers joined in…'

Brian dissolved into tears.

I put my arm around his shoulders, but he shook me off roughly.

‘You know the worst thing I saw,' he said wildly. ‘It wasn't the dead men; it was the two who were still alive.' He buried his head in his hands and said brokenly, ‘and it was not the screams that were the most harrowing, it was the laughter.'

I sat in silence imagining the horrific scene that Anderson had witnessed.

‘At last it finished and the little man with the axe came over to me and looked up at me. He was covered in blood and his axe had pieces of hair and gore on it. He never took his eyes off me, but he ran his hand over the axe to wipe it and then wiped my cheeks with his hand.'

Anderson fell silent again.

‘Then what?' I prompted.

‘The villagers and his men crowded round him and I thought I would be hacked to death like my men. I didn't care, after what I had seen, but he waved his followers away with the axe. He rubbed more blood off his axe and said to me: “Tomorrow you'll be released and taken to the border; all you have to do is remember what you have seen tonight. This will help you.” Then he wiped more of the gore on my face. “Now to the message,” he carried on. “Tell Middleton and Lovell that I rule in these parts, not them or the Scots and they would do well not to stand in my way, now or in the future.”'

Brian Anderson looked at me.

‘Then, Francis, he said to tell you that this is the only warning you will receive from Skiam.'

During the next month, the rest of us worked with grim determination. While previously I had planned to clear the Debateable Land, I now intended to destroy it forever. Fodder for the campaign proved to be the biggest problem. By November it was proving hard to find oats and hay. I sent messengers to the duke to beg his assistance and to my surprise, three weeks later a small number of wagons arrived, accompanied by Richard Ratcliffe.

‘Why are you planning a winter campaign?' he demanded once we were in my quarters.

I poured him wine.

‘Firstly, Skiam and his followers will not be expecting us, so we have the element of surprise. Secondly, the ground should freeze over, so there will be no retreating to secret hiding places in marshes and bogs. Finally, once his horses and supplies have been destroyed, he will have no way of replenishing them.'

Ratcliffe nodded and rose. I watched him prowl round the room carefully avoiding the scattered pieces of armour and discarded weapons. He bent to pick up a mace but dropped it when he felt the weight.

‘How soon can you go on the offensive once you've destroyed the Debateable Land?' he asked casually.

His tone was too nonchalant to be convincing, so I grinned at him.

‘What's the problem?'

Ratcliffe gave a rueful smile.

‘You know me too well, Francis. The fact is that we need a success.'

I reached for the wine.

‘Tell me what has happened.'

Ratcliffe's story was narrated hesitantly. He apologised for this at the outset; clearly it was not that he did not trust me or wished to withhold sensitive material, rather, that he was dealing in overall impressions and not facts.

Nothing could be proved, Ratcliffe explained, but he believed that people were stirring up trouble for Richard of Gloucester and Anne Neville. A recent spate of rumours had apparently been spread in the South of England, all of which hinted that the North was not being as well managed as it should.

‘There was talk it seemed about the recent Scottish raids,' Ratcliffe told me. ‘Men say that the raids could have been halted sooner. The damage need not have been so great.'

‘But that's absurd!' I interrupted him. ‘Anyway who's behind these rumours?'

Ratcliffe could not say for certain.

‘Up until now Gloucester has been well respected in the country. He was seen as a loyal brother to King Edward, serving him well in war and peace.'

‘So who is trying to cause trouble for him?' I demanded.

Ratcliffe glanced round quickly and lowered his voice.

‘I believe that the Queen, Elizabeth Woodville, and her family are.'

‘But what has Richard done to harm them?'

‘On the face of it nothing,' Ratcliffe admitted. ‘But Francis, the Woodvilles are constantly looking to increase their own political power. Maybe they are trying to weaken Gloucester's hold on the North so that they can encroach here as they are elsewhere.'
⁷

Ratcliffe shrugged.

‘And then of course there is Anne Neville herself.'