Dacre's War

by Rosemary Goring

  The king’s voice thinned, a single string strung so tight, it could snap at any moment. ‘Do not presume to tell us about our own country, your excellency. You speak as if it is a foreign land. Yet we know what happens in every town and hamlet, the sums on each moth-eaten tally of tax, every muster roll and court pipe.’ His eyes had narrowed like a lizard’s in the sun. ‘God almighty may be lord of all things in creation, but in England it is we who see under every stone and blade, into each beating heart.’

  Bubbles of froth had gathered at the corner of his mouth, like spume eddying in a rockpool. When the king talked like this, there was no reasoning with him. The cardinal took a deep breath, the pounding of his heart making his throat thicken.

  ‘Quite so, your majesty. And that is why I, and the cathedral monks, and the college of cardinals, here and in our sister lands, pray earnestly every morning and night for your endeavours as king of these isles and upholder of the true faith. We know only too well the burdens of state and soul that you carry on your shoulders. And none, your majesty, is more in awe of your knowledge and wisdom than I.’

  Henry stared at his cardinal for a moment, then paced towards the fire. Spreading his legs before its warmth, he rubbed his hands. ‘You’re a wily old snake, Wolsey. You and me both.’ He laughed, a cackle that made his dogs prick up their ears at a sound so rare.

  The cardinal bowed.

  ‘Nevertheless,’ the king continued, his choler dampened, it seemed, by the flames, ‘our doubts about Dacre cannot be dismissed. They are not mere fancies. Come, sit here beside us.’

  They settled on the high-backed bench close by the hearth, whose blazing logs made the cardinal’s veins itch beneath his robes. Henry stretched his daffodil stockings towards the heat and shook his head. ‘Not yet November, and this place cold as a crypt. We dread winter, Wolsey. We would stay abed from the feast of St Nicholas to Easter morn, if we had not so much business to handle. And,’ he added, ‘a wife who’d complain at doing her duty more than once a week.’

  Wolsey examined his fingernails, long since bitten to the quick. ‘The Baron Dacre, your majesty, is the best man we have for the job. Warden General is a weighty obligation, and none knows the area, or its troubles, better than he.’

  ‘It is indeed a grave responsibility, and since he importunes us twice to beg, in the most intemperate terms, to be allowed to relinquish it, we are curious to know why you think him still well fitted for it.’ He examined the letter, as if it could speak, then crushed it in his fist. ‘The man is desperate as a landed carp to be off the hook. And we to see him gone.’

  The cardinal opened his mouth to speak, but Henry had taken a draught of air that would last some time.

  ‘Under his command, the north has been all but lost to us. The rebels are dangerously out of control, the highlanders of the middle march are in open revolt, the east threatens insurrection, and the west is a hotbed of thieves and killers who are in thrall to the warden, not to the crown.

  ‘When last did Dacre execute more than a couple of miserable miscreants, and then only for appearance’s sake? He cannot maintain the law. Not just cannot, but will not. The criminals are his allies, and the titled are his foes. It is a cockeyed command, Wolsey, everything gone arse over tit, and it makes our head spin just to think of it. Yet here we are, given a heaven-sent chance to set him free and bring fresh order to the north, and you tell us no, leave things as they are.’

  The cardinal once more opened his mouth, again to be cut off.

  ‘Just think, man, we could put Surrey in his place. The best soldier of our times. Truest of our courtiers, so straight he cannot walk up a turnpike stair without stubbing his toes.’

  ‘But an ailing man, your majesty, despite his high honours,’ said Wolsey, when Henry at last paused to catch his breath.

  The king thumped his fist on the bench. ‘Dacre is far older, and a great deal more decrepit! He whines about his gout, his bad leg, his rotting teeth. If I’m to believe his last account, he has so many things wrong with him he can barely piss unaided, let alone mount his horse.’

  The cardinal said nothing. He tucked his feet under the bench, further from the fire, but he could feel his face growing ruddy as his king’s.

  That ruby moon was now turned towards him. ‘Speak, your excellency, God damn it. What say you to that?’ But to the cardinal’s relief, Henry’s growl was only for show.

  ‘All you say is true, I have no doubt,’ he replied. ‘Dacre is well advanced in years, yet for my part I trust him better than the earl. Either way, Surrey would not give the post his full attention; he pines for the south, and sunnier climes. Better by far he acts as Dacre’s commander in times of crisis only. For the time being, I feel sure it would create more trouble, worse friction, to appoint a new Warden General.’ He smoothed his skirts. ‘I agree that the baron is highhanded. I do not think he is a criminal, or that he twists justice to his own ends, but there we must differ until there is evidence one way or the other. To judge from his constant complaints about hardship, whatever he makes on the side is far from adequate.’

  The king roared, setting his hounds’ tails thumping. ‘Hardship! The very idea is preposterous. The man is rolling in wealth. Eighth richest baron in the land, so Brother Beecham tells us. More spare money to throw around than either you or me, that’s an undeniable fact.’

  ‘Yet few have his outgoings, your majesty.’ The cardinal caught his eye, and raised a hand in acknowledgement. ‘Fair enough. I will say no more in his favour. Only this.’ He clasped his hands in his lap. ‘Keep him in post, your majesty, on the provision that he pays the cost of any further insurrection and rioting under his rule. And that he metes out regular justice to thieves and thugs. Let him know that no fewer than ten executions a month will satisfy us. That way you are assured that he is working as hard as he can in your interests, and I have the comfort of knowing the best man is still a bulwark between us and the mischief of the north.’

  Silence fell, the king chewing his lip as he considered the cardinal’s plea.

  ‘We will think on it,’ he said finally, rising and calling the dogs to heel. ‘Now be gone. You have exhausted us.’

  A servant, till then standing invisible by the doors, opened them with a flourish. Scraping a backward bow, the cardinal left, the flurry of his red robes finding an answer in the hearth as the palace draughts sought out the flames and set them leaping up the chimney.

  The king’s seal lay on the parchment like a pat of crimson butter, so large it all but covered the sheet. Blackbird took the letter, and locked it in the baron’s linen chest. The missive was thick, four pages or more. It seemed that Henry had much to say, but he would have to wait to be heard, to lie in the dark until the lid was opened.

  Dacre had left some days before on a raid against the Redesdale highlanders, intent on crushing a band of outlaws under a leader who dared to challenge his rule and raze his lands. He returned a few days later in great good humour, the chase and fight filling his cheeks with colour, his heart with fresh blood. He brought with him a handful of prisoners to be flung into Harbottle’s dungeons, the rest already despatched to Hexham, where they would fetch a decent ransom. The prospect of easy money cheered him almost as much as the expedition. It would help equip his newest recruits, whose tackle and arms were so old they had likely seen duty at Bosworth Field.

  When the Warden General limped into the castle, the smell of steel and sweat arrived with him. Blackbird met him at the entrance, proffering the king’s missive on a salver. The baron’s barking sallies to his men died, and he halted. The pair stood motionless, despite the mill of servants, dogs and soldiers, their silence swallowed amid the noise. Finally Dacre pulled off his gloves, and picked the letter off the plate.

  ‘So our majesty still lives,’ he murmured, breaking the seal and scanning the pages beneath. Blackbird heard him catch his breath, then, without a word, he brushed past him, and made for the stairs to his room.

  Dusk had
long since fallen when Blackbird found him there, staring into the thin blue night. He did not acknowledge his butler’s presence, but Blackbird refused to leave. Setting down a tray of bread and ale by the hearth, he put a lit taper to the fire, and to the rushlight on the walls. Dacre stood rigid at the open window, white-faced in the cold. Drawing the shutters, Blackbird turned him round as if he were a child, and set to unbuckling his swords. When he had stripped off his fighting gear, he helped him into a worsted jacket, and brought out his deerskin boots, regretting their new-polished gleam was lost in the chamber’s dim light.

  Dacre placed a hand on Blackbird’s shoulder as he pulled on the boots. Once dressed, he sat by the fire, and nodded to his man to join him. ‘It’s the worst of news,’ he said roughly. ‘The king will not release me. That much I expected. I will reply saying I accede to his wishes, but only until Easter. Christ’s blood, Blackbird, I climb these stairs like an old man. I shit blood, and spit teeth out in my sleep. It is unreasonable to keep me in harness any longer, and he well knows it.’

  Blackbird eyed him with concern. ‘Easter is not far off. It’s surely not for a few weeks’ extra labour that you are cast into gloom.’

  Dacre rubbed his knees. ‘No. I am disappointed but not dismayed by that. What alarms me, what shows how evilly the king regards me and my trust, is that he insists I must henceforth pay for any losses the raiders cost our people.’

  ‘What?’ Blackbird squawked.

  ‘You heard. Whatever destruction is wrought by the Ridleys or the Charltons, or any other ruffians and traitors, in whatever part of the marches, it is I who must foot the bill.’

  He shook his head, disbelieving. Blackbird’s eyes widened. ‘But that is impossible. It will ruin you!’

  ‘That, it seems, is the king’s purpose.’

  The butler spread his hands, as if it were his purse that would be emptied. ‘The destruction these men cause, it would cost you hundreds every time they appeared before the law.’

  ‘Aye. And there’s worse. From now, I am obliged to string up ten men or more every month, to set an example and remind the world whose side I am on.’

  Blackbird nodded grimly. ‘That, at least, is straightforward. The place is awash with thieves. Ridding the dales of a few of them will be no more painful than emptying your rivers of pike.’

  Dacre shrugged with irritation. ‘But not all thieves are my enemies, as ye well know. They might be rogues of the first degree, but I need to keep their kin on my side. If to maintain the trust of the king I make these families suffer, I will start losing influence here. Who knows where that could lead.’

  Absently, the baron ate the bread, and drained the ale. Some colour returned to his cheeks. Neither man said anything, listening instead to the marsh wind whistling at the window, filling the room with the scent of peat and reeds, a reminder of the wilds beyond.

  After a while Blackbird bent to stoke the fire, and spoke with his back to his master. ‘The executions must be managed in such a way that your closest allies are protected. Warned too, perhaps. And since you are master of your own courts, that, surely, is easily arranged. As for the edict to pay out to those who seek financial redress for their losses, there is an obvious solution, by my reckoning. One certain and simple way to save your skin.’

  Crouched by the grate, the butler stared at the kindling sticks as if he wished they were the king’s bones. A gallows smile crossed his face. ‘Seems to me, only those without fear would dare come to you for compensation. Their pleas will be heard in your courts. And you and your men will be present at those hearings. I wouldn’t much like to face you or, for that matter, your brothers, if I were bringing a claim on your purse.’

  ‘Some would still have the nerve. They breed them tough in these parts.’

  ‘They might try it once, my lord, but an example must be set. And if you, being so busy, are unable to teach the east and middle marches a lesson yourself, I am sure there are those who would willingly do it for you.’

  Blackbird fed a fistful of dry leaves into the fire, and at last it began to glow. He stood up, to find Dacre nodding. ‘One lesson to teach them all,’ the baron said, so softly he might have been speaking to himself, or merely making sure the wind did not carry his words beyond the room and warn any of what was to come.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  November 1523

  The Duke of Albany brushed snow from the brim of his helmet and cursed the northern gods. Behind him rode a dejected line of soldiers, the remains of the four thousand who had set siege to the castle of Wark, on the English border, three days before. Had it not been for the weather, Albany would have taken the prize, of that he was sure. But never had there been a country so often held to ransom by the elements. Just when he and his men were in position to assault the castle walls, the River Tweed began to swell. One minute the water flowed smoothly between its banks; the next it was thickening with waves, backing up and piling in upon each other like a crowd at a dog fight, until the river bed was swamped, and the fields on both sides swimming with dirty brown water and half-drowned rats.

  On the Scottish banks they barely had time to pull their artillery to safety, but by then the game was over. Alexander Wedderburn, Albany’s dour guide, told him that until the Tweed subsided, it would mean certain death to launch their attack. ‘It’ll suck youse in like quicksands,’ he said. ‘There’s gey few rivers as crabbit as this. It’s seen mair corpses this year alane than the pauper’s pit.’

  Disgruntled, Albany was preparing to sit out the delay in the comfort of Home Castle, whose cellars were famed on both sides of the border, when word arrived that the Earl of Surrey was fast approaching, with an army as large as his.

  So now, on the advice of his timorous Scots lieutenants, he was in retreat, turning tail like a hound that has been whipped and sent to its kennel. Under his ice-crusted helmet, Albany seethed. Had it been possible to peer further than a foot ahead, his men would have seen a face curdled with fury. Gone were the duke’s good looks and charm, in their place a glower that threatened any who fell into his sights. His French troops would have fought, but it seemed the Scots had lost their stomach for a fight along with most of their men that long-ago day at Flodden.

  Half a week later, when at last the army reached Edinburgh Castle, Albany could barely speak for cold. The final ten miles had passed in a blur of loathing, for the country and its people but most of all for his own idiocy in taking on the regent’s role. Cursing like a sailor into his beard, he swore it would take a miracle to keep him in Scotland much longer. When he dismounted by the castle walls he threw the reins to a stableboy, who stood shivering in the sleet, awaiting orders.

  Baleful under its powdering of white, Edinburgh Castle rose sheer from its rock above the regent’s head. Seagulls wheeled overhead, fluttering against slate-grey clouds. Yet cramped, cold and damp as it was, the castle looked inviting. Compared with the ice-blown borderlands and their frozen keeps, it was almost as enticing as the palace of Fontainebleau. Feeling the north wind’s bite, Albany vowed never again to go on campaign this late in the year.

  Around him soldiers made their dogged way under the arch and up the castle ramps to their quarters. ‘Boy!’ called the regent, grabbing the first who passed. ‘Have my rooms made ready. Be swift.’

  ‘Tout de suite, votre grâce,’ replied the young man, with a bow. Sopping red hair flapped beneath his helmet, and a river of sleet ran off his cape as he hurried up the cobbled passageway ahead of the regent, to bark orders for his grace’s ease.

  Once within the castle doors, Albany stood alone before the great hall fire, sweetening his mood with mead. He downed a tumbler, then made for his room, where he found the fire burning high. A bowl of water sprinkled with lavender steamed on one side of the hearth, and on the other a flagon of hot spiced wine. Dry clothes were spread on a bed whose sheets had been warmed.

  The red-haired soldier, who had awaited his arrival, bowed and would have left, but Albany put a g
rateful hand on his arm. He snatched it away. ‘See you change swiftly,’ he said, ‘lest you catch pneumonia. Here . . .’ He poured some wine and pressed it into the boy’s hand. ‘Drink up, fast. It’ll warm your gizzard, and stave off the chill.’

  ‘I am most grateful, your grace,’ the boy replied, when he’d drunk.

  The duke looked at him. ‘Not one of us, are you? Your accent, I’d guess, is from the north.’

  ‘Picardie, your grace. But my family lives now in Paris.’

  Albany nodded, and began to strip off his jerkin, the young man’s signal to depart. He spoke over his shoulder as the boy left. ‘Join me and the high command here for dinner, and we’ll hope to bring some cheer at last to this misbegotten day.’

  That night Albany’s men gathered at his table, the northern youth among them, though he spoke not a word. The duke’s lieutenants were almost as quiet, not risking speech while the regent railed against the troops, and his humiliation at their hands.

  ‘I should have threatened them with treason for refusing to fight,’ he muttered, staring into his goblet as if he were reading runes.

  ‘Too late, your grace,’ said Montgomerie, Earl of Eglinton. ‘You gave the order to retreat yourself. We all heard it.’

  The logs gave a hiss as hailstones rattled down the chimney, and in the silence that followed mice were heard scuttling across the rafters. The duke’s hand tightened on his cup. In the firelight, his colour deepened and the group held their breath. When his rage erupted, the young soldier leapt with fright. With a sweep of his arm the regent cleared the table of cups and hurled his dish at the wall. Uttering a wail of anger he stood, knocking over his chair, and set about his room, kicking his bed, his kist, the boots that stood by the door.

  ‘Wretched country!’ he cried, ripping off his woollen cap and throttling it. ‘I can do nothing right! Your men won’t fight, my men are miserable – and who can blame them, badly fed and frozen to death – and the English will not make peace. What am I to do?’