. . .â he growled, swiping the air as he advanced upon them. Silently, the figures darted out of reach. Fingers beckoned from behind the trees, unearthly pale and tapered, leading him onwards into the dark. As his tormentors crept deeper into the woods, moving from pine to pine in a mockery of hide-and-seek, he saw that their hind legs were crooked, as if they preferred to walk on all fours. It was then that he noticed the nubs of bone on their close-cropped heads, the cloven hooves where feet should have been. As the significance of this sank in, the last of the six turned to face him. Its owner put his hands on his hips. From his untied britches rose a cock the size of a cudgel. The devil leered at the baron and began to tug the monstrous appendage. As dizziness overcame him, Dacre heard a cackling laugh. He dropped to his knees, the night swimming around his head.
A hand was on his shoulder. âBrother,â said Christopher, âwhatâs wrong?â
Dacre looked up, wild-eyed. âCan ye no see them?â he cried. âDevils, a pack of them, sent to pursue me.â
Christopher followed his gaze, but as Dacre too could see the woods were empty. âYouâve been dreaming, Tam,â he said, helping the baron to his feet. âHow much did ye drink at dinner?â
Dacre spluttered. âDonât take me for a fool. I wasnât asleep, and I am not drunk. God help us, Iâve seen the devilâs own men. They were meant to scare the life out of me, so they were.â Shakily, he picked up his sword, and sheathed it.
âCome over here,â said Christopher, taking his arm, âand sleep near the fire. I will keep guard for a watch, and Armstrong after me. Itâs not long till dawn. By light, no one will dare approach.â
Subdued as a sleepwalker woken from his trance, Dacre allowed himself to be coaxed back to bed. This uncommon meekness worried his brother more than the talk of devils. Too perturbed to feel drowsy, he kept a keen look-out until the first cockerel crowed.
Christopherâs consternation had faded in the days after Jedburgh, but in the flaring light of Harbottleâs torches, Dacre glanced over his shoulder more than once. As the wine took him in its grip, he trembled. The devils had boded ill, and their promise had been quickly fulfilled. Unsettled by his night visitors, the next day the baron had driven his men to attack without mercy. It was as well they did. Jedburgh had put up a fight worthy of a kingâs army, refusing to be cowed. As his troops swept down on the town, four thousand and more of them whooping and yelling, brandishing swords and clubs, they were met by a cannonade that sent their ranks tumbling one over the other like breakers reaching a beach.
A bitter fight followed. The townsfolk manned their walls and the abbey with a courage that Dacre could only admire. Women as well as men fought them off. Children launched nursery missiles â stones and bricks, old apples and tumshies â and screamed in delight when these found their mark. More than a few English raiders were toppled off their horses as the young catapulters broke their noses or blackened their eyes.
By dusk, Dacre doubted they would breach the townâs defences that day. Calling his lieutenants, he ordered them to slacken their assault. Given false hope, he said, Jedburgh might relax its guard sufficiently for them to slip through it.
And so it proved. As the Warden Generalâs men retreated, as if to remuster, the Jedburgh defenders put down their weapons. In their relief, they did not notice a line of raiders slithering over the abbey walls, slitting the throats of the abbot and his brothers, and breaking into the church. Not until the first oiled rags had been hurled and flames were blazing behind its windows did they realise their mistake. In fury, they surged towards the abbey, but by then it was too late. Dacreâs men had gained
An Eye for Glory: The Civil War Chronicles of a Citizen Soldier