Kilmarnock Bound

[Trot]

Patrick nervously taps his bow standing with the archers preparing to go into battle.

[Mors Vigilia]

With his lead horsemen, Carlisle reached the village. Amazingly, one hut-like dwelling stood untouched by the flames and one could discern the silhouettes of moving figures within. Dismounting, Carlisle drew his sword and approached it...

[René Artois]

The village was burning and most of the inhabitants lay dead or else were being rounded up. Any the men didn't want would be sent to slavery. Anything valuable or useful would be gathered, as they prepared to move onwards.

[Mors Vigilia]

In long strides and with sword drawn, Carlisle reached the unburnt hut. Trying the door he found it shut and so kicked at it, finding it still unyielding to his touch he stepped back before trying again. With an almighty kick and a loud grunt, the door was forced open and an arrow flew from the darkness within it. The missile narrowly missed the baron, passing through the space between his chest and outstretched arm, though it's mere appearance drove the man to a fury.

Leaping into the darkness of the hut, Carlisle confronted his assailant, slamming the bowman into the far wall before hacking into him multiple times from above with his sword. At the sound of a high shriek, the baron swept around and sliced his blade across the throat of the woman who had been standing there. His eyes quickly adjusting to the dim light, Carlisle could find no other threat. Though now a small shape moved behind a pallet and bending to inspect it, the baron found a small girl, eyes wide in fear and anger. No older than six or seven, this girl was dirty, malnourished and had little by way of clothing that wasn't a rotten rag. Seeing Carlisle staring at her, the girl arched like a cat and hissed at him like a feral beast. Her mouth was home to red raw gums and rotten teeth and as she hissed at the baron she spat at him, her saliva layered with blood. In disgust, Carlisle let her be. The flames would eventually consume her or someone else would take her. He certainly had no use for her and he didn't take slaves as that required dealing with the Irish or the Norwegians, neither of which were anything that he desired to do.

Departing the hut, Carlisle sought out Sir Roger. These villages were all well and good, but he wanted a bigger quarry and he knew where to find it...

[René Artois]

What next?

[Mors Vigilia]

East. We will burn Dumfries, and this time you will not start until the Irishman and I arrive. I will see him kill the first man or I will see him dead.

Carlisle was determined that bamburgh would prove his worth as a leader of Wardens or he would be removed from the position by force.

Should he do well, he shall remain in the east, burning Kirkcudbrightshire, Wigtownshire and Ayrshire. You and I will continue on towards Kilmarnock.

[Mors Vigilia]

Shaking his head with disdain, Carlisle set off on his own.

[René Artois]

Roger and his men quickly overtook Carlisle's force and waited for him near the town, far enough away though so they weren't alerted to their presence.

[Mors Vigilia]

Dumfries was built upon a large field, with a compacted centre and sparse stone buildings becoming more frequent as the town widened outwards.

Carlisle was not fool enough to bring his men alongside Sir Roger and so went alone to the knight as they looked over the town. Now they only awaited the arrival of the Irishman for the carnage to begin.

[René Artois]

What's the plan, lord?

[Mors Vigilia]

Carlisle leant over in his saddle, speaking quietly to his knight.

When the Irishman arrives, we make him lead the assault. Should he refuse, we crush him between us and the Scots.

[René Artois]

Roger nodded, and tapped the hilt of his sword impatiently.

[Mors Vigilia]

Carlisle had almost dozed off in his saddle when he heard the sound of hoofbeats coming up behind them. Suppressing a yawn, he turned his head, expecting to see the Irishman heading a column of Wardens. Though Bamburgh did not have as large a contingent of horse as the new sounds seemed to suggest... Indeed, it was a large number of mounted men coming towards Carlisle now and their pace was not slowing. If anything they were speeding up... A banner rose in their midst, a rampant white lion upon a red field, that of the Earl of March. What were they doing here? Still trying to discern the purpose of these new events, the baron caught the glimpse of sunlight off of metal! A drawn weapon! Surely there was only one reason that a weapon would be drawn now...

Run! To the town! Take it quickly!

Matching his words, Carlisle kicked his horse back around and into a charge towards Dumfries. He was sure now that March meant to see him and his men dead and the only way out he could see was to enter the town and hope the combination of battling both Scots and English forces would prove too confusing for March to reach him. Not waiting to see if his commands had been obeyed, the baron thundered towards the town, different scenarios racing through his head so fast as if to match his own speed. If he entered here and made his way around those buildings there, he might just set up a comfortable position, safe from missiles and too tight for enemies to reach easily, yet open enough to allow in those that he wished to. Or, he could make straight for the centre, no, that plan would likely lame his horse judging by those cobblestones and that'd leave him on foot and in the open. Could he stop just before the centre, use the outer buildings to break apart any pursuers whilst keeping the centre at his back? No, too risky... So caught up in his own desperate thoughts, Carlisle barely registered when two men stepped up from the grass, pulling a thick rope between them. With the crunch of cartilage and the faintest whimper from his horse, Carlisle was rocketed from his saddle, over the crumpling form of his dying steed. The baron gave a sickening sound of his own as he left wrist was the first to touch ground, cracking as the bones inside splintered. Dazed and in pain, he sat up and blinked. Beside him - sitting in the grass - were two other figures, staring at him wide eyed. These were the men who had felled his horse, the speed of which had dragged them along too as they had held onto the rope. These men were in a better condition than Carlisle and they both got to their feet, one drawing a long knife. By instinct, Carlisle rose too, holding his left arm behind his back he tried to draw his sword though the belt had twisted in the fall. After a few short twists and tugs, the blade came free though the men had yet to make a move on him. The baron could see why, past the still cadaver of his horse, armed men came forth from Dumfries, spears and bows at the ready. They had known that the English were coming, they had been tipped off...

Meanwhile, Sir Roger had heard Carlisle's commands and been alerted the imminent arrival of the Earl March. However, whilst men and horses churned around them - attempting to follow Carlisle in some hasty semblance of order - Dalston and his men at arms held firm. He too had come to the same realisation that these former allies were now charging at them with the intention to kill though he could not see the sense in becoming trapped between them and Dumfries. Seeing his men awaiting clarification of his orders, Sir Roger began arraying them into a line. At the very least they'd halt the enemy charge here...

Barely half of Sir Roger's men had arrayed themselves before the first charge hit home. With an almighty clatter of metal and the thump of horse flesh upon horse flesh, the two forces came together, Roger's against the much larger force of the Earl March. Roger's line - illformed as it was - managed at least to stagger the charging forces. They had been riding hard and so this mismatched line acted as a brick wall against the charging force. Though many of Dalston's men and horses had been knocked from their feet, they had now created a morbid barrier of sorts of which the men of March had trouble navigating and together men and horses fell in the confusion. Roger himself was barely able to keep his horse under control, though that was the extent of his abilities here. He could only watch as man and horse merged into a maelstrom of flesh and blood, a timely duck saw that he was able to keep his head firmly attached to his neck as a sword came sweeping over him and a temporary loss of control of his horse saw the animal bound from the bloody pile that it had found itself in and fled away from the carnage...

This was a stalemate, a brief and likely disastrous stalemate, but a stalemate nonetheless. Carlisle stood between these two horse-slayers as both he and they tried to work out whether the unmounted Scots would reach them first, or the ragtag English bands of unorganised men, of which a few were mounted. Seeing little alternative, Carlisle slashed out at the man with the long knife beside him. Whether due to being drained of strength or being too pained to focus, the swipe was agonisingly slow as it passed nearly a foot from its intended target. The man merely stepped and kept his knife level. Carlisle tried again with gusto though this was perhaps his downfall. His blow falling short, the force brought the baron along with it, causing the man to fall once again, just as the Scots arrived to see him secured.

The Marcher men had broken through their morbid barricade, laying about Carlisle's scattered forces and wreaking havoc amongst those who did not throw down their arms. It looked as if the day would end in slaughter, The Wardens of Carlisle caught between the conjoined Scots and marcher forces as even now a hail of arrows fell from the sky. As the missiles struck, both men and horses fell, mainly those in the Marcher red and white. The arrows came not from Dumfries but from the southeast, Bamburgh had arrived!

It was a grim scene that had greeted Patrick as he and his men had neared the town. They had arrived too late. He knew that there was nothing he could do to turn the tide of this battle and so he could turn back and admit defeat or do what little he could to even the odds. His bow arm twitched in anticipation as if it already knew the decision he'd make. And so it was. Even if they could not be sure of hitting their targets from here, they could at least hope to create enough trouble for the newcomers in red and white to allow the Wardens a chance to flee. As the first volley flew, a lone horseman on a ragged horse came upon their lines. Sir Roger was alive and well, if rather winded. Seeing the Irishman as his chance at safety, he regaled the man with what had happened between ragged gasps for air.

Unfortunately the arrows were not able to do as had been initially intended as few Wardens were able to flee from the situation they had found themselves in, though they did serve to abate the bloodlust of Scots and Marcher men who - reluctant to charge upon archers when already weary from this skirmish - now sought to end this fight, returning to Dumfries with their grand prize, the Baron of Carlisle.

Patrick left his last arrow where he had embedded it in the soft ground before him, the enemy were too far away now. It was up to him what to decide from this point onwards, though another battle so soon would surely be a fruitless endeavor.

[Trot]

Patrick orders his men to halt. now was no time to pursue their were dead to bury and wounded to treat. Organizing his men in to companies to set up a camp and begin to bury the dead. Patrick himself sets up the giant command tent and allows it to be used as a field hospital. Then riding out to the site of the battle he begins to help carry the wounded back to the tent. He organizes stretchers. After a rather long day Patrick returns to his tent. I rather small unassuming thing it looks like most of the infantry's. He never did have a taste for grandeur. setting down he puts his head in his hands. If only he had been there earlier. He might of been able to save more. Why had he been so damn late. Now he was all that was left of the western Army. He was out of his depth. He had never commanded so many men before. What should he do next what should he do?

[Trot]

The next morning Patrick rises and sends a rider to inform the king of this unfourtunante defeat. He organizes his men and prepare to follow his orderss as best he can. He follows the victourious army into Scotland. There were men he had to free. If he didn't their blood would be on his hands.

[Trot]

Seeing the opposing army he form his infantry into a line on the slope of small hill the archers stood on the crest. Calvary stood on each flank. Patrick stood examining the enemy he was too inexperienced in command. What on earth should he do?

[Mors Vigilia]

Days passed. Those in Dumfries were comfortable, with the bulk of their army encamped at the northwest of the town. Patrols were frequent though they were careful to stay out of bowshot.

---

Following the path of the army, a hundred light mounted men encroached upon Patrick's line. Seeing the Northumbrian Wardens yet no sign of Carlisle's banner, the lead rider called out.

Ho, Wardens. We seek the Lord Carlisle, is he nearby?

The man was an oddity, as he seemed to follow neither Norman nor English fashions. His dark hair was cut short to a stubble at the sides with the rest on top being pulled back and tied behind his head and he sported a closely cropped beard that did not leave his lower jaw. Perhaps even more noticeable than that was the beastly arming sword strapped to his back.

[Trot]

A hairdresser calls out "Lord O'Neil is in charge of this camp."

[Mors Vigilia]

Take me to him, good man!

The rider's tone was sharp but well mannered.

[René Artois]

Roger stepped forward and addressed the newcomer, he was dirty and tired, and in no mood for niceties,
You are?