Weardale, west of Stanhope
The steep sides of the Rookhope Burn valley fell away as the busy stream hurried on to meet the larger Wear crossing. With pennons aloft and trumpets sounding the English host advanced over the last mile – and unbelievably there ahead was what they had longed for all those weary miles: the Scots! The Black Douglas had kept his word.
All along the higher ground in front they stood silently in lines, watching, waiting.
Immediately before the English and away to the left was a near quartermile of low meadow, pasture, crops. A consummate battleground.
But – between the two armies the turbulent River Wear rushed and seethed. It was shallow but rocks and boulders concealed in it would make a crossing slow and risky and within easy reach of the arrows of the Scots on the heights above the river plain.
Once again The Black Douglas had outmanoeuvred the English. In his unassailable position high on the steeper far bank he could control any crossing and if the English moved up or down the river he could parallel anything they did.
Edward drew up his army on the flatland and rode along the ranks calling encouragement to his men, ignoring the insulting whoops and scornful cries from across the river. Then he faced them about and under a dozen of the flag of St George he stepped them slowly forward to the edge of the river.
‘What’s this?’ Daw asked incredulously.
‘He’s wanting to bait the Scots to break ranks and come within range of his archers,’ Godefroy muttered. ‘They’m no fools, they’ll never do it.’
He was right. Frustrated, impotent, the English achieved nothing.
As the afternoon wore on, idleness turned to rage and Daw received a royal summons.
King Edward did not waste words. ‘Where are my gunnes?’ he demanded.
‘Sire, I beg to say I cannot tell you. The army has moved far and fast but I know in my heart that my father will not break faith with Your Majesty, and must be coming up with us as swiftly as he may.’
The young man turned away but not before Daw glimpsed the sudden glitter of tears of frustration.
‘Then we must turn to other means. They may be Scots, but cannot be dead to the devoirs of chivalry – send forth for my herald!’
The man came, his surcoat and tabard emblazoned with the royal lions of England, his trumpet’s hanging banner edged with gold.
‘Go to the Scottish lord and declare to him these my words – that I should this hour withdraw my host to allow his army to cross the river and make array against me. Then we shall in fair equality try the fortune of our standards.’
Daw watched as the man made his way to a convenient rock mid-river and raised his trumpet in a strident peal – once, twice, three times.
From the lines of Scots above a single figure detached itself and came forward to stand arrogantly on a jutting crag.
Daw couldn’t hear what was being hailed above the rush of waters but whatever the reply, it received wild acclamation from the throng above him.
The herald returned with a stiff dignity. ‘Sire, Sir James Douglas does give reply in this manner. “I did enter England to annoy its King. Why then should I please him now?” he did say.’
Later that night horns bayed among the fires that ringed the hills opposite. More and more sounded in a barbaric clamour that was joined with a horde of unearthly hoots and wails that resounded up and down like the gates of hell itself.
The English camp stood to, hastily pulling on their chain mail hauberks and full armour, and readied for the assault.
For the rest of the dark night and into the grey of day they lay to arms, enduring the acute discomfort and misery of lying in the open in wet and bone-cold steel, their weapons to hand, endlessly waiting. As the wan light spread, the Scottish came down to jeer at how their trickery had worked.
It was bitter to take, the hopeless stalemate.
At the wretched slop that passed for a meal Godefroy relished a tale of how Mortimer had stormed into Edward’s tent and demanded they disengage that day and return to York. The young King had retorted with spirit that upon his sacred honour he would never be seen to take flight before the Scottish. His banner would without question remain at this place until the affair was resolved.
Mortimer had taken it with the utmost bad grace but this could plainly be put down to the fact that Isabella had travelled to York and was waiting impatiently for him there.
The day continued wearily on.
Another miserable night beckoned. The rain had stopped but the ground was muddied and foul. Godefroy and Daw were lucky: they had one of the few carts and could sleep clear of the dross; nearby were the equally small number of tents – those of the King and Lord Mortimer atop a slight rising of the ground.
Darkness drew in, the Scots lines easily marked out by fires. Mercifully there was no repeating of the blasting horns and tumult and Daw drew his cloak about him and drifted to sleep, lulled by the rush of river waters.
Sometime in the early hours he awoke. There was something wrong: he lay rigid, but heard nothing beyond the restless snoring of the men about him and the desolate night calling of some creature.
Then he had it. A subliminal drumming. Eyes staring into the dimness he strained to make sense of it – and in a sudden rush of comprehension he knew it to be horses, many, the sound getting louder and louder until suddenly they were upon them, slashing, impaling, killing. Harsh cries rang out: ‘A Douglas! A Douglas!’
The camp woke in confusion but the Scots had chosen well. Crossing the river well upstream they’d stealthily moved on the English and in a wild night charge had gone straight for the heart of the camp. Flaming torches held aloft threw light on a hellish scene. Hurtling black shapes swinging weapons that glittered terribly, shrieks from sleeping men mercilessly hewn down – it was a nightmare beyond grasping.
Several riders converged and thundered together for the tents of the nobles and whirled their blades, severing ropes and bringing them down in kicking folds. The riders circled briefly, plunging lances brutally into the humped figures desperately trying to escape.
From his hiding place under the cart Daw saw the King’s tent suddenly surrounded, the ropes cut – and a huge figure on the closest horse roaring to the others to hold back, gyrating in impatience. ‘Come out, the Sass’nach King!’ he bellowed in fury, brandishing his great sword. ‘Black Douglas wants ye!’
A figure struggled out shakily, raising both hands in a despairing gesture to the implacable Scot. It was the chaplain pleading for the life of the King.
‘Be damned to ye!’ Douglas snarled in rage and swung his sword, smashing the man’s skull.
There were now shouts and running figures – the English camp was waking from its nightmare and was about to turn on the intruders.
In a final flurry of screams and curses the horsemen rode furiously back out into the night.
As the ravaged camp took stock and the dead and wounded were dragged away there was a last insult: the exulting cries and howls of the Scots across the river as they welcomed back their war party.
The King emerged next morning, his eyes red and his face strained. Daw’s heart went out to him – in truth only a youth used to a life of the highest richness and security, but that night he’d seen for the first time the hideous cruelty, butchery and terror of war in which he himself had been nearly slain.
Refusing all food Edward let it be known that he would never upon the honour he held dear be known as a King of England who had slunk away before a barbarous Scottish war band. In full view of the capering clansmen above he strode about, offering words of comfort and cheer to the men he was leading, acknowledging their pain and hardship and vowing a terrible vengeance one day.
And still the stalemate held.