Bernard Cornwell - Vagabond

Lord Outhwaite’s banner of the cross and scallop shell was in the left-hand battle and Thomas crossed to it. The prior, dismounted now, was in the space between the left and centre divisions where one of his monks swung a censer and another brandished the Mass cloth on its painted pole. The prior himself was shouting, though Thomas could not tell whether he called insults at the enemy or prayers to God for the Scottish chanting was so loud. Thomas could not distinguish the enemy’s words either, but the sentiment was plain enough and it was sped on its way by the massive drums.

Thomas could see the huge drums now and observe the passion with which the drummers beat the great skins to make a noise as sharp as snapping bone. Loud, rhythmic and reverberating, an assault of ear-piercing thunder, and in front of the drums at the centre of the enemy line some bearded men whirled in a wild dance. They came darting from the rear of the Scottish line and they wore no mail or iron, but were draped in thick folds of cloth and brandished long-bladed swords about their heads and had small round leather shields, scarce larger than serving platters, strapped to their left forearms. Behind them the Scottish men-at-arms beat the flats of their sword blades against their shields while the pikemen thumped the ground with the butts of their long weapons to add to the noise of the huge drums. The sound was so great that the prior’s monks had abandoned their chanting and now just gazed at the enemy.

‘What they do’ – Lord Outhwaite, on foot like his men, had to raise his voice to make himself heard – ‘is try to scare us with noise before they kill us.’ His lordship limped, whether through age or some old wound, Thomas did not like to ask; it was plain he wanted somewhere he could pace about and kick the turf and so he had come to talk with the monks, though now he turned his friendly face on Thomas. ‘And you want to be most careful of those scoundrels,’ he said, pointing at the dancing men, ‘because they’re wilder than scalded cats. It’s said they skin their captives alive.’ Lord Outhwaite made the sign of the cross. ‘You don’t often see them this far south.’

‘Them?’ Thomas asked.

‘They’re tribesmen from the farthest north,’ one of the monks explained. He was a tall man with a fringe of grey hair, a scarred face and only one eye. ‘Scoundrels, they are,’ the monk went on, ‘scoundrels! They bow down to idols!’ He shook his head sadly. ‘I’ve never journeyed that far north, but I hear their land is shrouded in perpetual fog and that if a man dies with a wound to his back then his woman eats her own young and throws herself off the cliffs for the shame of it.’

‘Truly?’ Thomas asked.

‘It’s what I’ve heard,’ the monk said, making the sign of the cross.

‘They live on birds’ nests, seaweed and raw fish.’ Lord Outhwaite took up the tale, then smiled. ‘Mind you, some of my people in Witcar do that, but at least they pray to God as well. At least I think they do.’

‘But your folk don’t have cloven hooves,’ the monk said, staring at the enemy.

‘The Scots do?’ a much younger monk with a face left horribly scarred by smallpox asked anxiously.

‘The clansmen do,’ Lord Outhwaite said. ‘They’re scarcely human!’ He shook his head then held out a hand to the older monk. ‘It’s Brother Michael, isn’t it?’

‘Your lordship flatters to remember me,’ the monk answered, pleased.

‘He was once a man-at-arms to my Lord Percy,’ Lord Outhwaite explained to Thomas, ‘and a good one!’

‘Before I lost this to the Scots,’ Brother Michael said, raising his right arm so that the sleeve of his robe fell to reveal a stump at his wrist, ‘and this,’ he pointed to his empty eye socket, ‘so now I pray instead of fight.’ He turned and gazed at the Scottish line. ‘They are noisy today,’ he grumbled.

‘They’re confident,’ Lord Outhwaite said placidly, ‘and so they should be. When was the last time a Scottish army outnumbered us?’

‘They might outnumber us,’ Brother Michael said, ‘but they’ve picked a strange place to do it. They should have gone to the southern end of the ridge.’

‘And so they should, brother,’ Lord Outhwaite agreed, ‘but let us be grateful for small mercies.’ What Brother Michael meant was the Scots were sacrificing their advantage of numbers by fighting on the narrow ridge top where the English line, though thinner and with far fewer men, could not be overlapped. If the Scots had gone further south, where the ridge widened as it fell away to the water meadows, they could have outflanked their enemy. Their choice of ground might have been a mistake that helped the English, but that was small consolation when Thomas tried to estimate the size of the enemy army. Other men were doing the same and their guesses ranged from six to sixteen thousand, though Lord Outhwaite reckoned there were no more than eight thousand Scots. ‘Which is only three or four times our number,’ he said cheerfully, ‘and not enough of them are archers. God be thanked for English archers.’

‘Amen,’ Brother Michael said.

The smallpox-scarred younger monk was staring in fascination at the thick Scottish line. ‘I’ve heard that the Scots paint their faces blue. I can’t see any though.’

Lord Outhwaite looked astonished. ‘You heard what?’

‘That they paint their faces blue, my lord,’ the monk said, embarrassed now, ‘or maybe they only paint half the face. To scare us.’

‘To scare us?’ His lordship was amused. ‘To make us laugh, more like. I’ve never seen it.’

‘Nor I,’ Brother Michael put in.

‘It’s just what I’ve heard,’ the young monk said.

‘They’re frightening enough without paint,’ Lord Outhwaite pointed to a banner opposite his own part of the line. ‘I see Sir William’s here.’

‘Sir William?’ Thomas asked.

‘Willie Douglas,’ Lord Outhwaite said. ‘I was a prisoner of his for two years and I’m still paying the bankers because of it.’ He meant that his family had borrowed money to pay the ransom. ‘I liked him, though. He’s a rogue. And he’s fighting with Moray?’

‘Moray?’ Brother Michael asked.

‘John Randolph, Earl of Moray.’ Lord Outhwaite nodded at another banner close to the red-heart flag of Douglas. ‘They hate each other. God knows why they’re together in the line.’ He stared again at the Scottish drummers who leaned far back to balance the big instruments against their bellies. ‘I hate those drums,’ he said mildly. ‘Paint their faces blue! I never heard such nonsense!’ he chuckled.

The prior was haranguing the nearest troops now, telling them that the Scots had destroyed the great religious house at Hexham. ‘They defiled God’s holy church! They killed the brethren! They have stolen from Christ Himself and put tears onto the cheeks of God! Wreak His vengeance! Show no mercy!’ The nearest archers flexed their fingers, licked lips and stared at the enemy who were showing no sign of advancing. ‘You will kill them,’ the prior shrieked, ‘and God will bless you for it! He will shower blessings on you!’

‘They want us to attack them,’ Brother Michael remarked drily. He seemed embarrassed by his prior’s passion.

‘Aye,’ Lord Outhwaite said, ‘and they think we’ll attack on horseback. See the pikes?’

‘They’re good against men on foot too, my lord,’ Brother Michael said.

‘That they are, that they are,’ Lord Outhwaite agreed. ‘Nasty things, pikes.’ He fidgeted with some of the loose rings of his mail coat and looked surprised when one of them came away in his fingers. ‘I do like Willie Douglas,’ he said. ‘We used to hunt together when I was his prisoner. We caught some very fine boar in Liddesdale, I remember.’ He frowned. ‘Such noisy drums.’