‘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.’
‘Will we attack them?’ the young monk summoned up the courage to enquire.
‘Dear me no, I do hope not,’ Lord Outhwaite said. ‘We’re outnumbered! Much better to hold our ground and let them come to us.’
‘And if they don’t come?’ Thomas asked.
‘Then they’ll slink off home with empty pockets,’ Lord Outhwaite said, ‘and they won’t like that, they won’t like it at all. They’re only here for plunder! That’s why they dislike us so much.’
‘Dislike us? Because they’re here for plunder?’ Thomas had not understood his lordship’s thinking.
‘They’re envious, young man! Plain envious. We have riches, they don’t, and there are few things more calculated to provoke hatred than such an imbalance. I had a neighbour in Witcar who seemed a reasonable fellow, but then he and his men tried to take advantage of my absence when I was Douglas’s prisoner. They tried to ambush the coin for my ransom, if you can believe it! It was just envy, it seems, for he was poor.’
‘And now he’s dead, my lord?’ Thomas asked, amused.
‘Dear me, no,’ his lordship said reprovingly, ‘he’s in a very deep hole in the bottom of my keep. Deep down with the rats. I throw him coins every now and then to remind him why he’s there.’ He stood on tiptoe and gazed westwards where the hills were higher. He was looking for Scottish men-at-arms riding to make an assault from the south, but he saw none. ‘His father,’ he said, meaning Robert the Bruce, ‘wouldn’t be waiting there. He’d have men riding around our flanks to put the fear of God up our arses, but this young pup doesn’t know his trade, does he? He’s in the wrong place altogether!’
‘He’s put his faith in numbers,’ Brother Michael said.
‘And perhaps their numbers will suffice,’ Lord Outhwaite replied gloomily and made the sign of the cross.
Thomas, now that he had a chance to see the ground between the armies, could understand why Lord Outhwaite was so scornful of the Scottish King who had drawn up his army just south of the burned cottages where the dragon cross had fallen. It was not just that the narrowness of the ridge confined the Scots, denying them a chance to outflank the numerically inferior English, but that the ill-chosen battlefield was obstructed by thick blackthorn hedges and at least one stone wall. No army could advance across those obstacles and hope to hold its line intact, but the Scottish King seemed confident that the English would attack him for he did not move. His men shouted insults in the hope of provoking an attack, but the English stayed stubbornly in their ranks.
The Scots jeered even louder when a tall man on a great horse rode out from the centre of the English line. His stallion had purple ribbons twisted into its black mane and a purple trapper embroidered with golden keys that was so long that it swept the ground behind the horse’s rear hooves. The stallion’s head was protected by a leather faceplate on which was mounted a silver horn, twisted like a unicorn’s weapon. The rider wore plate armour that was polished bright and had a sleeveless surcoat of purple and gold, the same colours displayed by his page, standard-bearer and the dozen knights who followed him. The tall rider had no sword, but instead was armed with a great spiked morningstar like the one Beggar carried. The Scottish drummers redoubled their efforts, the Scots soldiers shouted insults and the English cheered until the tall man raised a mailed hand for silence.
‘We’re to get a homily from his grace,’ Lord Outhwaite said gloomily. ‘Very fond of the sound of his own voice is his grace.’
The tall man was evidently the Archbishop of York and, when the English ranks were silent, he again raised his mailed right hand high above his purple plumed helmet and made an extravagant sign of the cross. ‘Dominus vobiscum,’ he called. ‘Dominus vobiscum.’ He rode down the line, repeating the invocation. ‘You will kill God’s enemy today,’ he called after each promise that God would be with the English. He had to shout to make himself heard over the din of the enemy. ‘God is with you, and you will do His work by making many widows and orphans. You will fill Scotland with grief as a just punishment for their godless impiety. The Lord of Hosts is with you; God’s vengeance is your task!’ The Archbishop’s horse stepped high, its head