Dacre's War

by Rosemary Goring

  ‘Will she be wi’ her master?’ Benoit asked.

  ‘Where else?’ Smiles fading as they sensed a customer escaping their hold, they banged the shutters tight.

  Benoit hesitated. Were he to ask the way to Ilderton’s castle, his lordship might be given warning of his arrival. Turning back to the main street, he had decided there was no option but to do so when a swineherd appeared, racing after a wandering pig that was rootling in the gutters, oblivious of his cries, but skittering away with a squeal whenever he got within reach.

  The lad was hot-faced, his torch no more heated than his cheeks. ‘Blasted old sow, she dis this every evenin’,’ he panted, racing past Benoit and making another ineffectual grab for the grand dame’s hindlegs.

  ‘Haud these,’ said Benoit, throwing his reins at him. He tiptoed after the sow who, thinking the herdsman had been defeated, soon stopped to truffle in a dunghill. When Benoit lunged, her unholy screams brought villagers to their windows, shutters thrown back to see what was amiss, but in the dusk little could be seen but a ruckus of man and pig, each as wide as the other.

  While Benoit held the beast down, the swineherd slipped a chain around her neck. ‘Ye’d be well advised tae keep that on her day and night,’ said the carpenter, getting to his feet and brushing the filth off his knees.

  ‘Aye, I will,’ said the boy, grinning. ‘She’ll have bitten through it by the mornin’, but I’ll get a better yin made. Thank you.’ He headed back down the street, the animal trotting at his side, the pair, caught in a bowl of orange torchlight, looking as if they were out for a stroll.

  Benoit untethered his horse, and was looking around for someone of whom to ask directions when he saw a figure slipping up the street, keeping close under the eaves. Night was gathering fast, but as the shape passed the lit windows of a tavern he caught a flash of red hem peeping beneath the long black cloak. As he watched, she disappeared along the high road heading east.

  Swinging himself into the saddle, he was with the Crozier brothers in half a minute. ‘Ilderton’s manor, that’s where he is,’ he said, breathless in his hurry. ‘Methinks his hoor’s companion has set off to warn him. We’ll have to deal wi her.’

  They nodded, and wheeled out of the woods onto the road. Some way beyond the village outskirts they caught sight of a shadowy form, hurrying towards the hills. Hearing their approach, the woman began to run. She left the road and plunged into the woods, but Tom was after her, his horse picking its way through the tangled undergrowth with the ease of a good huntsman’s mount.

  Crozier and Benoit were waiting on the road when he dragged her out of the trees by the arm, his horse following on its own.

  ‘Let go of me,’ she yelled, kicking at Tom as he twisted her arms behind her back. Crozier took a rope from his saddlebag, and had tied her hands before she could do more than ask them what they wanted. Her legs were shaking, and a sharp stench of fear filled the air as Tom pushed her against a tree and bound her chest and legs to the trunk.

  Crozier stood over her. ‘Tell us what we want, and we’ll do you no harm.’

  She looked at him as if she would spit in his face.

  He took a step nearer. ‘Who is with Ilderton the night? Are his men at the castle, or just his servants?’

  For a moment it seemed she would tell him nothing, but at the sound of Tom’s dagger leaving its sheath she spoke. ‘He’s alone with Beatrice, and a couple more girls from the house.’

  Tom pressed the blade against her neck. ‘That the truth? Because if we find him surrounded by his men, we’ll be back before you’ve had time to count your blessings, and this time we won’t be as friendly.’

  Her lips narrowed. ‘It’s the truth. Why would I risk my neck for any of them? Ilderton’s a brute. It was Beatrice I went to warn. You can do what you like with him. It’s only my sister I want home safe.’

  ‘How far?’ asked Benoit.

  ‘Couple of miles at most. Over the ford, and up the hill.’

  The borderers got on their horses. ‘You’re not leaving me here?’ she cried, her voice turning into a wail. ‘There’s wolves in these woods. And wild boar.’

  ‘There’s richer pickings for them than a wee scrawny thing like you,’ said Tom.

  Crozier looked down at the girl, hesitated, and then dismounted. He unstrapped the blanket roll on the back of his saddle, and draped it over her shoulders. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘You’ve a cold few hours ahead of you, lass, but that’s the worst you’ll suffer. Come dawn, there’ll be someone passing who can set you free. Your sister, perhaps. We’ll not hurt her, I assure you.’

  ‘Bastards!’ she shrieked as they set off, and the sound of her gusty weeping followed them down the road.

  Ilderton’s manor rose out of the dark like a man of war, a squat, square castle from the time of the first Norman king. The smell of smoke warmed the air, but nothing could mask the dankness and decay that oozed from these neglected walls.

  No guards were posted at the gates, and no dogs prowled the grounds. Their approach was so easy it was as if a trap had been laid to lure them into the very mouth of Ilderton’s lair, and would only be sprung once he had them in his hands. Nerves alive, they were more cautious than if there were lookouts at every turn.

  Blacker than the deepening night the walls stared down at them, blank and forbidding. Leaving their horses in the shelter of the trees, they crept up the track. The portcullis was raised, but the great doors in the gateway were bolted and studded with iron. Picking their way past mounds of filth tipped from the ramparts, they made their way round the castle. At the rear, Crozier found a postern gnawed by rats. It was locked, but the first kick made the wood groan, the second produced a splintering, and with a third it fell off its hinges, and they were into a narrow passageway that led to the courtyard.

  Lights seeped from a row of narrow shutters on the first floor. But for this, and a meagre brazier in the corner of the yard, the place was in darkness. As the borderers crossed the cobbles past the stables, hooves shuffled at the sound of strangers. Tom poked his head into the stalls and came out with the news that there were three horses, one of them a pony. It seemed the whore had been telling the truth: there was no one here but his lordship and his bedchamber guests.

  Swords in hand, they entered the west wing of the castle, and found the stairs.

  ‘Who the hell might you be?’ came a throaty voice, and a woman dressed in coarse linen, tied at the waist as if she were a sack of meal, stood in their way. By her cap they guessed she was the cook. She was filling her lungs, her bosom swelling like a pullet’s, when Crozier knocked her unconscious with the side of his fist. Cushioned in fat, she collapsed as softly as a spent candle. Benoit and Tom dragged her by the ankles into the kitchens, where they locked her in the larder. A maidservant found sleeping by the fire was gagged and bound before she could scream, and likewise bundled into the press to spend the night with glass-eyed pheasants and caged blackbirds, who flapped frantically at their bars, fearing their time had come.

  Upstairs, the passages were lit as if for the eyes of pipistrelles. Rushlight cast a glow so watery it was more like the memory of light than an actual flame, but at the end of the corridor a line of brightness blazed under a door, and as they drew closer they heard laughter, the high-pitched merriment of nervous young women, and the low, commanding tones of their master, breaking now and then into a rumble of sardonic amusement.

  A stone flagon fell to the floor, its crash softened by a rug. ‘Bring me another,’ roared Ilderton, and bare feet scampered across the room. Benoit looked at his companions and nodded. His lordship was already well soused.

  He lifted the latch and opened the door an inch, and then another. The scene before him was like a bard’s ballad in which evil temptresses bewitch a poor old widower, and rob him of his inheritance. Except these women were nothing but villagers, no better or worse than many. Their flesh was pink in the firelight, but pallid beyond its reach. Young though they were, these wer
e no enchantresses. Their charms worked only for a few years, and already for one time was growing short, rolling in lard as she was.

  She was crouched over Ilderton, who lay shirtless, his britches untied, on a bed of ancient furs. His hand caressed her bobbing head as she went at her task, while another girl rubbed warm oil over his chest and the third dangled her breasts over his face until he took a nipple into his mouth and was for the moment silenced.

  To judge from the height of the fire, and the untouched flagons on the table, the evening was only just begun. Benoit edged into the room, but a man his size could not pass for a shadow or a draught. The girl with the bowl of oil saw him first, and froze. Before her alarm reached the others, Benoit was at the bedside, his sword glistening in the flames as if it too were oiled.

  Ilderton’s eyes wavered as he took in his new visitor, unable at first to focus. When the haze of lust and wine had fled, he spat out the breast and sat up, dislodging the fat girl, who gave a petulant moan that swiftly turned into one of terror as she saw the blade pointed towards them.

  ‘Look what the north wind has blown our way,’ said Ilderton, his lips stained dark, as if the nipple, not the red wine, had brushed its colour onto him. ‘Girls,’ he said sharply, as the trio huddled at his side, shaking despite the heat of the fire, ‘don’t be afraid. I am sure that there is something the three of you can devise that could tempt this sullen Norseman to put down his sword and forget his troubles for a while.’ As he spoke, he laced his britches and swung his legs off the bed.

  ‘Naw, naw,’ said Benoit. ‘Stay right where you are. Yer lassies will be safe enough, but you and I need to have a talk.’

  While he spoke, Tom entered the room behind him. He surveyed the scene, unblinking despite a display of wanton nakedness he had not seen since Ma Borthwick in the village had been sent a vision of the Virgin Mary and closed her premises. Wordlessly, he herded the girls through a low door into the chamber beyond, returning only to snatch their capes from a chair by the bed. The latch dropped behind him, and Benoit was alone with the man who had sent him to a sure death.

  Befuddled though he was, Ilderton made an effort to hide his alarm. ‘Did you manage to find John the Bastard as I suggested?’ he enquired.

  Benoit pulled up a stool by the fire and sat, sword on his knee. ‘Pour a drink, and I will tell you all about it.’

  Ilderton raised an eyebrow, but dragged a flagon towards him, splashed a tankard full, and held it out to the borderer.

  Benoit shook his head. ‘Naw,’ he said, ‘you drink it. I’ve a long ride ahead of me still.’

  Ilderton took a sip and was about to set it down when Benoit raised his sword. ‘Finish it,’ he commanded.

  As his lordship drained the tankard, his eyes flickered with fear. He was beginning to understand.

  ‘Fill another,’ said Benoit, though by now the rules were understood.

  As Ilderton emptied the first flagon and began on the next, Benoit told him that his messenger was dead. ‘You’ve the backbone of a worm,’ he said, ‘sending a man like that to do yer treacherous work, and take the fall when it gangs agley. He died well, that much I will say.’

  Dampness was spreading over Ilderton’s brow. His shirt clung to him from the oils that greased his chest, but sweat began to run down his temples and under his collar. Soon the chemise was so wet it could have been wrung.

  ‘Fearless,’ Benoit continued. ‘And loyal. Which is not a word,’ he added, ‘that anyone could ever use of you.’ He stood, and filled another beaker, Ilderton’s hand trembling too much to complete its task. He held the tumbler out, but Ilderton shook his head.

  ‘Enough,’ he mumbled, his tongue blackened by wine.

  ‘Aye,’ said Benoit, ‘I’m sure for once you’ve had yer fill, but I insist, man. So drink up. Ye dinnae usually sicken o the stuff this easy.’

  ‘Your accent has changed in the space of a week,’ said Ilderton, knocking back the wine, and pressing the back of his hand to his mouth, perhaps to keep it down. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I felt it wis time to be masel’, ken. Since we’ll no be meeting again.’ ‘Who?’ repeated Ilderton, his eyes scanning the room, as if seeking a way out of this misery.

  ‘Ye asked me that afore, but I won’t be saying. My name disnae matter anyway. And soon,’ he added, staring into the flames as Ilderton hiccupped through another tumbler, ‘nor will yours.’

  Wine was trickling down his lordship’s chin when Benoit turned back to look at him. The head of silver hair began to wobble, and it fell forward onto his chest, where he began to sob, the heaving gulps of a helpless man, who knows he is beyond saving.

  ‘Here, let me gie ye a hand,’ said Benoit, placing a pillow under his shoulders and pressing his head back. He filled another tankard, and held it to the man’s lips, ignoring the bubbling choke as it made its way down.

  It was long after midnight when the last pitcher had been emptied. Ilderton lay unconscious, but Benoit had not finished. From his belt he took a flask of spirits, a Teviotdale brew so fierce it was most often used by physicians to stun patients before they went under the saw and knife. Almost as pale as his victim, Benoit tipped the bottle down Ilderton’s throat. He stoppered the flask, took out another, and did the same. And again. Three gills of spirits went down that gullet, and eventually his lordship’s breath grew shallow, and slow.

  Benoit’s mouth was twisted in disgust, though whether at the scene or his part in it was not clear. The room reeked of drink. Toppled flagons littered the floor, and the emptied tumbler was lost beneath the furs. Ilderton sprawled on the bed, abandonment in every limb. His chest barely rose. The carpenter took his wrist and felt the dying flutter of a pulse. Then, with a weak cry, the man sat up, though his eyes were closed, and his limbs like butter.

  He began to retch, a fountain of dark liquid spewing onto the bed. Benoit pushed him back, but Ilderton tried to turn on his side as another convulsion racked him. Averting his eyes, Benoit pressed a hand on his chest, keeping him on his back so that the vomit flooded into his lungs. His lordship bucked and kicked, but soon the thrashing, the fish-like gasping, the wet, sloshing rattle, were over. Benoit did not lift his hand until he could be certain there was no heartbeat beneath the sodden shirt. When all was still, he stepped back from the bed, made the sign of the cross, and closed his eyes, as if to blot out the memory of this room, which would be with him for the rest of his days.

  Stumbling to the door he called for Crozier, who was keeping watch at the end of the passage. Without a word, Benoit brushed past him and made for the stairs. It was Crozier who found the dead body, and in the room beyond it his sleeping brother, the cloaked women at his side. Shaking him awake, he realised that while Benoit had been putting his soul in mortal danger, so too had Tom.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Wherries bobbed on the river beyond the windows of Greenwich Palace, the cries of the ferrymen snatched away by a gusting wind. From the corner of his eye, the cardinal watched his king, while appearing transfixed by the view of sunlight on the Thames. It was a trick he had learned as a boy, taught by his cousin Matt, whose love of catching ferrets Wolsey had shared. The chisel-faced creatures would gnaw their willow bars, eyes screwed tight, and intent only on eating their way out of captivity, or so it seemed. All the time, though, they were watching for an exit, calculating their next move. A moment’s inattention by their young gaolers, and a ferret would make a dash for freedom, wriggling out of the basket and slipping through their grubby hands as if it had been greased. Once out, it would never be caught again, leaving only teeth marks and the stink of terror.

  Cardinal Wolsey suppressed a sigh. The most powerful churchman in England, as Lord Chancellor he was quite possibly the most important man in the country after the king, yet, unlike the ferrets, he could never escape. Even if he wished to abandon court, Henry would hunt him down. And most days he did not want to leave. This was home, however uncomfortable, and the urge to flee always passed. Tod
ay, it would fade as soon as Henry grew calm. But for the present he could only pray the king’s rage would pass over his head like a fire-eater’s breath. To judge by Henry’s complexion, however, it seemed his fury was blazing too brightly for him to avoid a roasting of some sort.

  The crimson of the cardinal’s robes was mirrored in the king’s face, but in other respects too they made a matching pair: square-set, broad-faced, rich food and too much wine swaddling their chests in fat. Wolsey was the elder, but his varicose legs were hidden by his skirts, his gnarled knuckles masked by rings. Nothing about the king was disguised. His hefty calves looked slim as reeds beneath his majestic belly, and the gold brocade jerkin and Italian puffed sleeves gave him the shape of a tailor’s dummy.

  Wolsey tapped the back of his own hand in rebuke. It did not do to mock his king, even in his most private thoughts. Henry was like a hunting hound, quick to sniff out disaffection. Even now, as the cardinal turned his back on the palace window, he saw suspicion in his eyes.

  ‘Has your confidence, does he then? Vouch for him, will you?’ Henry waved a travel-stained letter at the cardinal, speaking so softly that Wolsey was obliged to draw closer. He buried his hands in his cummerbund, to conceal their trembling.

  ‘Dacre is no fool, your majesty. Nor is he a saint. That I readily concede. There are questions over his probity, as we all know, and there is no doubt he worships the gods of expediency before those of the law. But in the northern territories, as forsaken a region as you will find within your kingdom – more so even than the wastelands of Wales – it takes a rough man to keep the peace, and hold the savages in check.’