Reiver

By Mark Ellott

In the fifteenth century, the border between England and Scotland was a wild place with its own laws. The border reivers were raiders who lived off the land when they could and stole when they couldn’t. Their allegiances were to the clan rather than country. Sometimes, they sold their services as mercenaries as they were skilled cavalrymen.
In August 1402, Edmund Collingwood joins a Scottish raid south into England, an enterprise that takes him on an adventure leading to a clash with the powerful Percy family and rebellion against the crown.
And what of the Dowager comtesse d’Alençon, held captive at Chepstow castle? How is her destiny entwined with Edmund’s and what is the secret that she keeps? Edmund is about to find out.
Reiver is both an adventure and a romance that commences with a battle in the wild marches of Northumberland and concludes in a siege in northern France.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Leg Iron Books
• Release date: Feb 17, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005153700

Mark Ellott

Mark Ellott is a freelance trainer and assessor working primarily in the rail industry, delivering track safety training and assessment as well as providing consultancy services in competence management.He is also a part time motorcycle instructor, delivering training for students who require compulsory basic training and direct access courses.He writes fiction in his spare time. Mostly, his fiction consists of short stories crossing a range of genres. Ransom is his first novel.Mark has had short stories published previously in ‘The Underdog Anthology’, and has more in the forthcoming anthology ‘Tales the Hollow Bunnies Tell’.He also has a volume of his own short stories coming soon, entitled ‘Blackjack’.

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REIVER

A Novel

by

MARK ELLOTT

Reiver

A novel by Mark Ellott

© 2021 Mark Ellott. All Rights Reserved.

First published in 2021 by Leg Iron Books

SMASHWORDS EDITION

While the story is based on actual historical events, the principal characters are the product of the author’s imagination and bear no relation to any real persons who may have existed at that time.

The book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronically or mechanically, including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval system, without the prior permission in writing from the publisher, other than brief quotes for review purposes.

Cover image © 2021 Maire Ellott.

https:legironbooks.co.uk

Contents page

Contents

Copyright and disclaimer

Reiver

Historical note

About the Author

Leg Iron Books

Prologue

Chatto, Scottish borders 1385.

It was a new moon that they came, that July night. The stars were bright in the cloudless sky. The breeze could be heard whispering gently through the trees. Almost silent, but not quite, a gentle sigh against the background of the night and on the breeze, they drifted in, the riders of death. There came muted sound of hooves as they arrived from afar while the villagers slept in their beds, unaware of the fate that was to befall them.

The raiders entered the village and paused, waiting for any signs of life but none came. They held their lang spears and falchions ready to strike before dismounting and making their way along the single street on foot. The men walked through the village, moving swiftly and silently from house to house. Then, bursting down the doors and roughly shaking the occupants who woke with a start to the sight of the raiders—dressed in doublets, hose and buskins and helmets on their heads, searching for whatever they might take, striking down any who dared to resist, brandishing swords to quell any resistance. Almost as soon as it had started, the raid was over and just over a hundred Scottish men and women were dead or dying, the night rent with screams, the ground dark with their blood. The silent breeze, silent no more.

The riders spurred on their horses taking them away from the village to the waiting darkness, herding the stolen livestock before them, their saddlebags clanking with the stolen booty. Those who survived watched, trembling in the shadows to which they had fled.

One rider paused in the semi darkness to look back and lifted his visor, casting one last look at the devastation his men had wrought. A good night’s work for John Armstrong and the first taste of blood for his apprentices.

In the middle of the street, an old woman crouched by the inert body of her husband. She stood and shook her fist at the departing raiders.

God’s curse be upon you, Johnnie Armstrong!

One of the young riders turned back and rode towards the woman, looking at her with detached curiosity. He flinched as she gazed at him. Even in the gloom, he could feel her hatred as it washed over him like the icy waves from the North Sea to the east.

May you forever be cursed, boy. May you always lose everything you hold dear. May you never see happiness until you repent for what has happened this night.

Johnnie Armstrong turned his horse and rode back, his lang spear tilted down. He ran her through and her dying scream echoed in the night and as it faded, silence fell once more upon the settlement. The boy looked up at Armstrong who pulled his spear away from the corpse, allowing it to crumple to the ground where it lay still.

Ignore the old crone, lad. Come, we have to get back before forst light.

Act I: War

Chapter 1

A Battle

Homildon Hill, 14th September, 1402

Edmund Collingwood fidgeted in his saddle. He looked about him as the morning sun lifted itself into the sky and shed its cheery light upon the landscape. His heart pounded in his chest and his throat felt tight, despite the calm of the day. Across the small valley to his left, the southerly wind created ripples in the grass on the rise of Harehope Hill, like folding sheets constantly changing hue. Its low moan, combined with the dulling effect of his helmet drowned out the small sounds of two armies waiting to engage. He could not hear the snickering of the horses, nor the stamping as they shifted their hooves on the ground, nor the tiny clink of the bridles as they chewed on their bits. Nor could he hear the occasional cough as men readied themselves for what was to come. Some, he noted, crossed themselves as they made their peace with their maker.

Ahead, down the gentle slope to the north, the English army led by Sir Henry Hotspur Percy had gathered, cutting off the route north to Scotland, the bright colours of their shields, surcoats and pennons stark in the sunlight.

The peaty odour in the atmosphere hinted at hidden spring water underlying the turf and Edmund wrinkled his nose at the acid tang.

Be reet clarty doon there in a bit, he said turning to his brother. ’Tis boggy, I reckon.

***

Aye, Robert grumbled. He didn’t feel much like conversation. In the calm before the carnage of battle he too felt his chest tighten and his stomach was queasy. He, too, looked down on the colours of the enemy gathered below. The bitter taste of acid reflux on his tongue foreshadowed what was to come. He swallowed it back, pulling a face as the sour bile went back down his throat. Like Edmund, he wore a steel pig face bascinet that came down over his ears with the visor lifted, allowing him to look about. Once the visor was down, vision was—as Edmund once observed drily—limited.

***

Edmund smiled. Robert was always tense before battle and he could see the pallor of his brother’s skin and patina of cold sweat beneath the opened visor. Both men wore jacks made of leather with armour sewn into them, giving the outward appearance of a studded design. Lightweight and flexible, the jack allowed for movement on the horse as well as giving some protection from sword thrusts. Likewise their long leather buskins provided light protection. Their main defence though, was their ability to move quickly on horseback. For weapons, each wore a falchion sword—a slightly curved, single edged blade ideal for slashing at ground troops from the saddle as well as their lang spears. Each sat astride a hobbler—a small, sturdy horse ideal for the terrain of the borders and for the role of light cavalry. As members of a reiver clan, raiding was in their blood and harrying the enemy while moving quickly was the reason Archibald Douglas had engaged their services on this mission.

Although a direct battle such as this had not been Archie’s intention, now it was inevitable, Edmund, unlike his brother, was relishing the confrontation, his adrenaline was flowing causing his heart to pound. The bitter taste on his tongue was one he savoured. He was impatient to be about the English army below.

Always the same, he thought. This stillness before the action.

In these quiet moments it was odd how the little things stood out, like the delicate purple harebells still in bloom among the grass, soon to be crushed under hooves and feet as two armies met in bloody conflict. He turned his head to the right and looked across at the makeshift corral where the source of the conflict was gathered: A herd of cattle stolen from their rightful owners during a raid that had taken them as far south as Newcastle during late August and early September. They chewed the cud, oblivious to their involvement in the dispute.

It was inevitable, he concluded, that the raid, instigated by Archie—Archibald Douglas, Fourth Earl of Douglas—would result in the ire of the Percys, and, predictably, upon hearing of the thefts, an enraged Hotspur had rallied his troops and along with George Dunbar—Earl of March—headed off the raiders between Wooler and Coldstream as they returned north with their booty.

As the raiders had attempted to encamp near Milfield on their march north, heading for the border at Coldstream, they had been rushed by Percy’s army and hastily retreated to the high ground at Homildon where they regrouped. Now cornered by the English, battle was inevitable.

On this fine September morning, Hotspur’s army encamped below them in the valley. Archie had instructed the infantry to form schiltrons where they waited for the next move. As the two armies shuffled for position, Edmund watched the English closely and wondered if Archie had a battle plan beyond forming schiltrons, for there was no indication so far that he had.

The raid had gone well enough, he mused to himself as he looked down the slope to the English army, studying their archers as they now assembled at the head of the line. To his left on the other side of the ravine between Homildon Hill and Harehope Hill, he could see a cavalry detachment and some more archers forming up. Not that he was too worried by the knights, but those archers were a concern. He frowned as he glanced across the lines of the two armies.

A lot of canny good schiltrons will be against those fellows.

They were within range by his reckoning and the rain of arrows would spell certain death to many of Archie’s 10,000 strong force, consisting mostly of spearmen who had little defence against the longbow. Although the Scots had archers, they lacked the English longbow favoured by Percy’s troops with its longer range, giving the English an advantage. The weapon was lethal up to nearly 300 yards and Edmund was becoming increasingly anxious now that they were well within that distance of the enemy to the left. He glanced across at Archie, but the man appeared not to notice the threat—or, if he had, was unconcerned by it.

***

At the foot of the hill, Hotspur sat astride his horse, looking up at the Scots on the high ground, with the shallow valley between the two armies. The humiliation of defeats at the hands of Archie’s father years earlier were as fresh in his mind as the day they happened.

A lithe, energetic man with a temperament well described by his nickname he pulled on the reins, causing his horse to twist and stamp the soft ground as he glared at the Scots in the lee of the hill, their pennants and flags fluttering in the breeze as his fury bubbled over.

Let’s be at them. He spurred his horse readying for the charge, its muscles rippling ready for him to let the beast go.

The cooler head of George Dunbar prevailed and he placed a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. Harry, Stay. Let the archers do their work afore we ride to meet the enemy.

Hotspur reined in his horse again and cast an angry look at his comrade.

Where is the honour in that?

No need to die unnecessarily, Harry. This battle will be won by the yard-shaft, no doubt.

Pah! Common archers are no men of honour. This will be a mere killing field, not a knightly battle.

***

Dunbar looked at the slim, dark haired man with his thin face and bright, excitable eyes before him and sighed. One day, he thought, Harry’s impetuous nature will be the death of him. War was a matter of strategy, not of dying in glorious battle, but to win and survive and the longbow provided their army with just such a means. They had an advantage, despite the low ground and he knew it. A killing field as Harry said, was precisely what Dunbar had in mind.

***

For Harry Hotspur however, there was no chivalric code for the archer—the common man conscripted to merely slaughter the enemy in his hundreds. To kill those knights who should be doing battle with each other and dying with honour in hand-to-hand combat. Where was the glory and the honour in dying under a hail of arrows in a muddy field? Besides, he wanted to stare Archie Douglas in the face as he cut him down in revenge for Otterburn, for his stolen pennon and for the humiliation of East Linton. This was personal.

Pah, he said. He tugged the reins, causing his horse to snicker in discomfort. He nodded, conceding the moment to Dunbar with a baleful glare. As you wish.

Having temporarily stayed Hotspur’s desire to dash headlong at Douglas’ positions in a suicidal charge, Dunbar turned away and watched as the archers took up their positions to the left of the Scottish army. He raised an arm to give the order.

***

When it came, it came quickly. The skies darkened as a cloud of yard-shafts descended in a rain of death. The shields and light mail of the Scottish army were no defence and men fell in their hundreds and their dying screams filled the air. The English longbow dealt its deadly blow as each man could keep three shafts in the air at one time. Horses reared in panic and the Collingwoods reigned back their hobblers as they twisted and turned, neighing in terror, to avoid the sky-borne destruction. Edmund turned to Archie as he wheeled his terrified horse. Will he not give the order?

We must move, Archie! Or be slain weor we stand!

Douglas seemed as if in a trance and did nothing as he watched his army being destroyed before his eyes. It was in that moment Edmund realised that fine Avant armour from Milan was no indication of military competence and Archie was found wanting when it mattered.

Mutha of God, Archie, give the order. We canna remain heor an’ be slaughtered without meeting the enemy.

Sir John Swinton, one of Douglas’ captains took it upon himself to make a move. Better to die in the charge than be massacred here. Forward, men. Forward.

He and a small detachment of cavalry charged down the hill toward the English ranks. As they rode, the archers steadily retreated while continuing to shoot at the advancing riders, killing them all.

Archie, Edmund said, Wor bein’ massacred, we must do something. Give the order.

Seeing that Douglas was doing nothing, Edmund shouted to the Scottish archers. Shoot, damn you. To the left.

It was pointless. The shorter Scottish bow was no match for the English longbow. The arrows fell short while the English continued their onslaught. As the Scots advanced, the English retreated, remaining in range and continuing the deadly volley of arrows. Eventually, the Scottish archers gave up the uneven fight and scattered as the English moved forward in a counter attack, pushing the Scots even further back.

As if rousing from a trance, Archie Douglas stirred in his saddle and looked about him. Charge. Forward.

Thank the Lord for tha’, Edmund said, looking across at Robert who gripped the reins and spurred his hobbler into a trot, following him down the hill, lang spears raised and into the thick of the English army.

As they descended the hill, the archers stepped aside creating a gap for them to enter and rained arrows down upon them, leaving the Scottish army dead and dying on the field.

Edmund felt the pain of an arrow as it found its mark, smiting him in the left shoulder and throwing him from the saddle.

He fell heavily and lay there barely conscious as the few Scots who managed to break through the English lines were pursued and struck down by the cavalry as they made a forlorn break for the Tweed and safety.

It was over in less than an hour and it was a rout.

Hotspur had his revenge.

And among the stillness of the corpses and blood-soaked grass, the purple harebells still waved their tiny heads in the gentle breeze.

Chapter 2

A Proposal

Mayenne, France, 1402

Sir Walter DeMonfort reined his horse to a stop in the courtyard before the chateau. He raised a hand to signal his men to do likewise and the dozen or so men at arms obliged. The clatter of hooves on cobblestones in the courtyard fell silent and were replaced by the little noises of the horses breathing and the chink of armour and tack. He shivered slightly—despite it only being early autumn, there was a chill in the air of this bright September morning with clear skies and barely a cloud to hide the sun. He breathed deeply. Despite the cold, he liked this time of the year as it portended change and Sir Walter relished the changing of the seasons. His hauberk and surcoat bearing his coat of arms provided little, if any, insulation. His bulk barely noticed the garment’s weight as he dismounted, landing lightly on his feet. Likewise, his men wore hauberks and surcoats bearing the DeMonfort coat of arms. They wore kettle helms over their mail hoods and carried lances—again with the DeMonfort coat of arms on the pennons—as well as their swords and shields.

Having dismounted he allowed a servant, who came rushing out of the chateau, to take charge of the animal while another came over to him and gestured that he follow him into the building. He removed his gloves and lifted his bascinet from his head—revealing a shock of dark hair flecked with grey that matched his close-cropped beard—and placed it under his left arm. Cool blue eyes surveyed his surroundings. He wrinkled his nose. The chateau was an example of affluence—an ostentatious three storey building with arched windows and round towers along the walls with machicolations below the battlements from which defenders could pour boiling oil upon the heads of attackers. The architecture was ornate and effete in a manner that only the French could manage, he observed to himself. Fitting for its inhabitant, Charles de Châtillon, who felt that image was an important part of being a nobleman—no matter how minor that might be.

A muscular man whose life was soldiering, Sir Walter was unimpressed with such showiness and soft living, preferring the campaign where much of his time was spent under canvas. His own castles were functional and contained only the necessities for life. He looked about at the absurdly decorative turrets and towers of the French architecture with a heavy sigh and followed the servant through the ornate oaken doors into the building, his booted feet echoing on tiled floors as he walked past fine objects, armour and weapons that adorned the halls, barely noticing them as he passed.

The servant led him into a room where a log fire burned in a grate filling the space with its heat and reddish glow. The gentle odour of wood smoke hung in the haze. In the flickering light the brightly coloured friezes on the arras stood out. Figures embroidered in fine silk frozen in battles long since fought and won—or lost. Sir Walter could not care less as such things were irrelevant to him. An arras had its place, he supposed, as they kept out the drafts. However, a plain one would suffice, rather than this decadent embroidery. He walked across the room, the sound of his feet dulled now by the rush flooring, and placed his helmet and gloves on the table that sat in the centre of the floor and slouched heavily in one of the chairs.

What does the man want, I wonder?

Eventually his host entered with a flourish. Dressed in the latest fashion of a scarlet tunic that came barely below the waist, exposing his hose and codpiece and on his feet were fine pointed shoes. Across his shoulder he wore a short cape. The soldier hid his distaste for the man’s overt flamboyance and bowed his head briefly as he stood.

Monsieur.

Charles de Châtillon returned the bow. Sir Walter, I’m so pleased you could come. He walked across the room and picked up a goblet from the table. Please, be seated. Wine?

Sir Walter nodded and took the proffered goblet and sank back into his chair, waiting while his host likewise filled a goblet for himself. Charles lifted his cup and Sir Walter returned the gesture, placing it to his lips and savouring the fruity glow as the liquid traversed his tongue and warmed his throat. At least the wine is decent enough. Once they had drank, Sir Walter broached the purpose of the visit.

Why did you ask me to come here?

Charles smiled. You are aware that my elder brother Henri, comte d’Alençon died recently?

Sir Walter nodded. He had been aware, but did not allow his host to read his thoughts on the matter, preferring to keep a neutral expression. My condolences, he said. How did it happen? Although he was fully aware of the circumstances, he played along as he waited for de Châtillon to explain the purpose of the visit, so he said what seemed to him to be the thing say in the circumstances.

I might make a diplomat yet.

A horse riding incident. Fell while out hunting. Charles shrugged as it was of no matter to him; he had other thoughts in mind.

Sir Walter said nothing. He wanted the man to get to the point as he had concerns of his own. Recent news had come to him about an uprising in Wales and as his castle was on the border, he was growing anxious about returning to deal with the matter. Indeed, had he not received a summons from his host, he would already be making arrangements for his departure to England rather than listening to de Châtillon’s family history. He refrained from allowing his impatience to show and made a pretence of polite interest as Charles spoke.

His wife—well, widow, I suppose—Angelique, the dowager comtesse is proving awkward.

In what way?

Well, Charles said, I have offered to marry her and take over my brother’s seat. It makes perfect sense. She cannot remain unmarried. A fair offer, I thought. A generous one, even.

Again, Sir Walter wondered why any of this was his business. It was a matter between Charles and Angelique and one in which he would prefer not to become involved.

So?

The damned woman has refused me.

Sir Walter stifled the smirk forming on his mouth by taking a sip of wine. And this has what to do with me?

"So,