On the Weardale trackway
Jared continued west into the interior, around hillsides and past endless barren ridges on either side. Always with the turbid Wear to the left.
There was no sign that an army had passed this way but that was to be expected if Edward was coming from the north.
If the Scots suddenly appeared Jared had no plans other than to flee for his life over the hill crests. In the event they captured the gunnes they wouldn’t know what they were or what to do with them.
The dull grind onward continued.
They reached the village of Stanhope. It was completely deserted. Uneasily, Jared told a pair of the gunners to ride ahead and see what they could find.
They were soon back with thrilling news: not three miles ahead two great armies faced each other across the Wear. But the cataclysmic battle had not started – by the good God that sat above, he was in time!
They progressed around a slight bend. On the steep far side of the river were the Scots, looking down on a broad, flat meadow where King Edward was camped with his army.
A shaft of sun suddenly pierced the clouds and made bright patterns in among the opposing hosts.
He noted that the Scots were out of harm’s way from the English, who in turn could not make a safe crossing of the swollen river under a hostile bank.
Jared and his little party were met by outlying sentinels who summoned an escort. As they entered the camp they were roundly cursed by starving soldiers who’d hoped for provisions.
King Edward hurried over. ‘Our gunnes of war, Master Barnwell?’
‘Indeed, Sire. In these wagons lie six of them ready to do their duty by their sovereign.’
The covering of one was thrown back and the King peered below the cart in perplexity.
‘As we must take the greatest care of your dread engines, Your Majesty.’
Edward made a wide gesture at the throng opposite. ‘If you can this day punish that hell-spawn yonder, know that I shall be well pleased.’
‘Sire, they shall be, but I beg leave to say that to preserve my gunne-powder through its long travels I make delay in its making until the last. It will take longer to do this than we have hours left in this day.’
Edward’s disappointment was barely disguised. ‘Do what you must, then, Master Barnwell – and do acquaint me when it is you are ready to act.’
Daw hurried over, tired and strained but overjoyed to see his father.
They embraced, but Jared admonished, ‘This is the hour we’ve been praying for. We must not waste it.’
He set Daw and a gunner to work with the mortar and pestle while he called over the yeoman gunner and they surveyed the ground together.
The six gunnes they’d brought were only intended to show what could be done in a pitched battle in combination with general forces, and unless one side or the other crossed the river there was not going to be the opportunity.
Jared felt deep frustration. To have come so far …
But what if … It was dangerous, he’d never done it before and it might have no direct result but his idea had an advantage that greatly appealed.
They could begin their punishment in as little as three hours – by firing at night.
But there was a major drawback: how could he charge gunnes in the dark?
The weather was clearing, there would be a quarter moon.
It was a chance.
Looking across at the Scots he measured distances by eye. Their lines were drawn up carefully out of bowshot but Jared knew his gunnes. They could carry well over half a mile and while at this distance they’d be far from accurate this was not needed for what he had in mind.
‘So we’ll give ’em a fright they’ll never forget!’ he told the yeoman gunner. ‘Help me lay these as will do the most good.’
With many idle hands to assist, the gunnes were brought to the water’s edge. Sighting by eye they were wedged in position, their snouts raised to sweep the opposite slopes.
The Scots looked down, curious, uncomprehending.
The last of the daylight faded, as much gunne-powder was prepared as could be – and with all gunnes charged, they were ready.
Jared waited until the fullness of night was upon them. The braziers were started, the iron wires heated. It was an unearthly sight, the dull gleam of the sleeping bronze beasts catching the fitful silver of an overcast moon, the Scots as usual in a caterwaul on the slopes, and in the quiet camp of the English, a few low voices.
Jared sent word to Edward, who strode down to the gunnes.
‘At night?’
‘Sire. I do advise to step back from these gunnes and it would be wise to take all horses to the rear.’
Then, without ceremony he and the gunners took their red-hot wires from the brazier and went to work.
The night was instantly split by hideous flashes and ear-splitting detonations of appalling noise, magnified by the stillness and dark, reeking smoke drifting on the air, echoing claps of thunder rolling down from the hills.
There were howls of terror and panic in the English camp – soldiers able to face an attack by a ferocious enemy ran for their lives, horses reared and whinnied in fright in a tumult of shouting and confusion.
For a moment Jared found himself picturing the effect on the Scottish side – it must be a hellish scene. Not only the world gone mad, split asunder by unknown magic forces, but far into their ranks invisible death had reached out, leaving dead and maimed, others untouched. Who could know the next to be taken by Edward’s sorcery?
Pushing aside these thoughts he knelt by a gunne and looked into its black mouth. He could make out the red dots of still burning material – there would be no premature firings while they could see to clean the bore. While commotion and uproar rose and fell around him he rehearsed the motions and was satisfied that with two serving the gunne and extreme care against spilling powder it could be recharged, even if it took much longer than usual.
One by one the gunnes thundered their defiance once again. Their ear-splitting roar and flash continued on and on into the early hours until all gunne-powder was exhausted. Then Jared laid down his implements, stumbled to the cart and fell into deep slumber.
‘Father! Wake, please – the day is breaking!’
Daw’s anxious voice cut through his sleep and he levered himself up. ‘We has to start on more gunne-powder,’ he slurred, gathering his wits.
‘Look – Father, see …?’
Jared forced his eyes open.
Every man in the English camp was silently staring across to the Scottish lines. No one moved in the still dim, hazy first light.
The hills were bare.
Edward broke the silence. ‘Send out riders. I will know where the Scots have hid,’ he commanded.
Five horses splashed through the Wear and climbed the opposite bank, then cantered off in different directions.
First one, then the others returned. ‘My Liege – the Scots are fled!’
‘How do you know this?’
‘Sire, they’ve left bodies, plunder – their very meat is still in the pots a-cooking. There’s not a Scot as far as a man can see!’
The English camp broke into thunderous cheering, their misery and starvation now, incredibly, at an end.
‘Master Jared of Barnwell, come near.’
‘My Liege?’
‘You shall receive all that was promised and be paid well for this night’s work.’
‘I thank Your Grace.’
‘There is one thing further.’
‘Sire?’
‘I bid you kneel before me.’
‘Rise, Sir Jared Barnwell of Coventry.’
Ears ringing in disbelief he stood nobly before his King, Daw at his side.
‘And now, I trow, we shall take drink together and make talk – we’re this day minded to contrive a trusty band of men who will, henceforth, attend on the King’s Gunnes.’