The King's Dogge (28 page)

‘So you want Master Middleton to keep those bowmen busy on the other side of the river and we let some of the men-at-arms cross the river?'

‘They'll send over half their men-at-arms and establish a protective screen.'

‘Of course they won't be expecting us. It's lucky that you didn't use us in the first attack, my lord. They won't know about us at all – real good fortune, I'd say.'

‘It was all planned!' I yelled at him, clenching my fists.

He looked dubious.

‘No one could be that cunning. Men say you're good, my lord, but that would be really clever.' He shook his head and put his great paw on my shoulder. ‘I'd say that you were just lucky, my lord.'

I burst out laughing as I looked at him. He was smiling now that he had got me to relax. He was a clever man, Fennell. He must have seen how strained and tense I had been when I'd arrived and set himself the task of altering my temper.

‘That's better, my lord,' he said gently. ‘Now what do you want to do with those fire pots?'

‘Have them filled with pine wood but don't use them until I tell you. Now, will you get your men into concealment?'

I watched him chivvy his men into the forest. Then I looked towards the river and started to calculate the angles for arrow fire.

‘Message from Master Middleton.' Fennell interrupted me as I placed the white marker sticks in the ground. ‘The Scots have quickened their orders of march. They'll be here in another two hours.'

‘We'll be ready for them,' I promised.

‘What happens if the Scots don't adopt a defensive position when they've crossed the river,' Fennell wanted to know. ‘What happens if they just keep going?'

I shook my head.

‘They wouldn't dare. Some of Middleton's horsemen would cross the river and decimate them. The Scottish archers can't be in two places at the same time.'

He thought about that one, then he grinned.

‘Suppose they divide their archers up, my lord?'

‘They wouldn't have enough to deal with the bulk of Middleton's horsemen on the far side.'

He checked my angles of fire and adjusted two of them. Presently, he peered steadily through the trees.

‘Can you see anything?'

‘Dust, my lord. We'll move back in a while.'

‘Do you want me to advance the men?'

Fennell's low tones would normally have been audible miles away, but the noise of the creaking carts and lowing oxen drowned out most sound.

‘Not yet.'

I signalled to him to remain where he was and quietly made my way to the edge of the forest.

About a third of the Scottish men-at-arms had crossed the river and were sprawled in a broad arc about 600 paces from the river. Two wagons had already crossed the river and had been moved away from the bank to make room for the remainder. Anticipating a lengthy wait, the drivers had unyoked the horses, which now grazed peacefully.

On the far side of the river, the remaining carts and wagons were preparing to cross. Behind them I caught a glimpse of Dick's horsemen who lurked out of range of the wary Scottish archers. Quietly I made my way back.

‘Light the fire pots!' I told Fennell. ‘Leave men to tend them with pine wood, but advance the rest of the archers.'

He leapt to his feet preparing to bellow out the order to the archers, but stopped when he saw my glare. Quietly, he moved round the supine men and formed them into small groups. We advanced silently through the trees. Twenty paces from the start of the clearing, Fennell signalled his men to spread out and I heard the sound of bows being notched.

‘Seems they've decided to speed up the crossing,' muttered Fennell.

He was right. Whether it was the fear of Middleton's horsemen behind them, or whether the Scots wished to ensure that they reached Berwick by nightfall, I did not know. For some reason though, they had abandoned their previous policy of sending the wagons over one at a time. Instead they seemed to have a number in the river and on our side of the bank; the Scottish infantry was manhandling the heavy wagons up the steep banks.

Fennell looked at me expectantly. I shook my head. We would fire the first few volleys from the shelter of the trees. Obediently, he stuck his arrows in the ground in front of him and the others followed suit. Then, aiming carefully, he fired the first shot. Seeing this, his men did the same. The second volley was already in flight before the first shots hit the Scots.

Some arrows were perhaps deflected by trees and others missed their targets but most did not. The sound of screams and frantic neighing of horses filled the air as the third and fourth volleys slammed into the Scots on the field by the river. I advanced the archers to the marker beyond the treeline to take up the second position.

Ahead of us was a scene of complete pandemonium. Dead and injured Scots lay in groups on the rough turf. Terrified horses galloped wildly, following each other to who knows where. By the river, two wagons had overturned, crushing the men who had been working them.

‘Keep shooting!'

Fennell's bull-like roar rose above the cacophony of shrieks, groans and neighing.

How necessary the next few volleys were, I did now know. The surviving Scots made no attempt to rush our position; instead they fled downstream or simply cowered behind the wagons. Gradually, the hubbub subsided.

‘Out clubs?' the scar-faced archer next to me asked.

I shook my head. Some of the wounded Scots might recover and get away.

‘Ask Captain Fennell to bring up the fire pots,' I told him.

We would advance to the riverbank now to complete the destruction of the Berwick relief force.

We moved forward ignoring the wagons and wounded beasts. On the far side of the river, there must have been well over a hundred wagons. The Scottish archers were still there of course and I guessed their numbers would have been supplemented by men-at-arms who had fled back across the ford. Captain Fennell raised an enquiring eyebrow. The wind was coming in from the coast.

‘Fire at the ones on the right-hand side,' I commanded him.

At fifty paces his men could hardly miss the wagons clustered together by the ford. Presently I smelled smoke and saw clouds drift up lazily from some of the carts.

To my surprise, few arrows were fired from the Scottish side. I guessed that Dick was manoeuvring threateningly and the bulk of their archers were still guarding the northern side of the Scottish position.

A few of the braver Scots attempted to draw water from the river to extinguish the small fires but at short range they were easy targets and toppled lifeless into the water. Behind them the Scottish wagons began to bump into one another as the horses smelled the smoke and moved uneasily.

‘Cease firing.'

I jumped as Fennell's bull-like roar resounded. I had not realised that he had come up behind me. I wheeled round.

‘Why stop now?'

He pointed across the river.

‘They'll try to rush us now. It's the only chance they've got.'

He was right of course. Boxed in by Dick on one side and us on the other, the Scots would be forced to use their greater numbers to rush one of us before the fire in the Scottish wagons spread uncontrollably.

‘Spread out!' Fennell boomed.

They were brave the Scots, but even a ford can slow men down at a time when they need to move quickly. Only a few of them even reached the abandoned wagons in midstream; the rest were washed away in that maelstrom of arrows, their screams silenced abruptly as the water took them.

Some managed to make it back to the far bank but the ground was muddied badly now with the progress of so many wagons and horses. They found it hard to climb back out and in their panic scrambled over each other as our arrows sought out their unprotected backs. They began to fight each other in their desperation to escape the river and their shrill cries and curses could be heard above the jubilant shouts of our archers.

The river was now becoming clogged with Scottish corpses, and I glanced at the far bank. Soon the Scottish position would be totally untenable. They were descending into a state of total confusion.

A number of wagons were now burning fiercely and the flames, fanned by the wind, were moving on to other wagons. Up to now the Scottish drovers had been able to control their plunging beasts, but as the smoke and flames increased, the horses began to panic completely. The animals crashed their loads into other wagons causing the fire to spread more rapidly.

Men jumped from the moving carts but were trampled by flailing hooves or crushed beneath the wheels of moving carriages, their shrill screams cutting through the smoke and panic. Two of the wagons managed to disentangle themselves and, with their horses tossing their heads and whinnying in sheer terror, careered driverless along the riverbank.

‘Cease firing!' I bellowed above the din.

‘The enemy is not fully destroyed!'

The scarfaced archer leant forward to pull another arrow from the ground in front of him and made to notch it. Impatiently I struck it to the ground and gestured to where the wind had blown the smoke away for a moment. There were horsemen with lances among the Scots now – horsemen who rode down the Scots milling on the riverbank, horsemen who hunted the fleeing Scots and plunged spears into their backs, horsemen who plunged their mounts into the river to spit the desperate Scots as they tried to wade away.

I turned away from the sight. Presently we would fire the remaining wagons and dispatch the wounded beasts. There was no chance of Berwick being relieved now, and soon the city would either surrender or be captured. The invasion could proceed, and Richard's reputation would remain intact.

Yet as I looked at the dead and wounded, I felt little elation, just an immense weariness.
¹⁶

‘One, two…hup!'

‘One, two…hup!'

The archers' voices were hoarser now I noticed and despite the cold wind they were sweating profusely.

‘One, two…hup!'

Their perspiration was not caused by unnecessary movement as by now the powerfully built bowmen had perfected their routine to make it as efficient as possible.

They worked in pairs. One would pull the arrows from the body, while his partner ran his hands through the dead man's clothing. Sometimes the arrows snapped as they were jerked out but, if they were extracted intact, the pair would share them along with everything else.

Then one archer would take the Scot's arms while the other took his feet and together they would drag the corpse to the edge of the burial pit.

‘One, two…hup!'

The problem for the men now, I observed, was the distance that they needed to drag the dead weights. When they had started this had not been an issue since naturally they had started with the bodies closest to the freshly dug pit. But, as the morning advanced, they found themselves roaming further afield which was why they were sweating now.

I glanced round. At the current rate of progress it was going to take at least another half day before all the Scots were heaved into the pits, so still thinking deeply I crossed over the ford.