He pulled at his hair, and only the pain made him desist. Panting, he came to a halt, gripping his bedpost as if he were so weary he could not stand without support. Too tall and furious for a chamber so small, he seemed suddenly to have outgrown it. The men at his table had stood as he raged, but now they righted his chair, recovered their goblets and jugs from the floor and took their seats. Already a servant was scampering at their feet with cloths, and soon a fresh table was laid, though the smell of spilt wine would take days to fade.
Eglinton put out a hand. ‘Come, your grace, be seated. It does you no good to fly into such a temper. Cool heads are needed these days. We have had our fill of the other.’
The young soldier, who was still shaking, expected a fresh salvo at this rebuke, but the regent merely nodded and, like a sulky child coaxed back to his toys, returned to the table.
‘So what do you advise?’ he asked, reaching for the wine. ‘Henry ignores my petitions for a truce. It suits him fine to be at war. He knows as well as I that the Scottish army is broken, a useless thing that takes fright at its own shadow. How often must I try to persuade these pathetic creatures to cross into England, always to find myself thwarted on the very point of valour? They dishonour the great name of this nation.’ He drained his cup and poured another. ‘My stomach is sickened. If they cannot, will not, help themselves then I will leave, and soon. The throne of a country such as this is worthless.’
Young Lord Herries leaned forward, his gaunt face cast in smoky shadow. ‘Yet who can blame our men for mistrusting their leaders? They have seen them make unforgivable mistakes, all in the name of glory. Few of your standing can command their faith these days.’
‘What of it?’ barked the regent. ‘It’s their duty to obey orders, not to question them.’
‘Flodden haunts them still, your grace. You need to understand that. Henry takes heart from that vile victory. But,’ he said, running a fingernail along the grain of the table as if testing a seam, ‘I know of a way that might put spirit into the Scots, and strike dread into Henry’s heart.’
‘Why have I not heard of this before?’
‘You have never asked,’ said Herries mildly. The duke held his gaze, searching for insolence, but found nothing he could name. Unversed in Scottish ways, he had yet, after all these years, to interpret the looks he met at every turn, rightly suspecting that bland innocence hid dissembling and deceit, yet never able to detect or unmask either.
‘You need a renegade, your grace,’ Herries continued. ‘Someone with no ties to the court. Such a man, if he could be turned to our cause and bring his own army, might just possibly encourage them to fight.’
As night closed in on the castle and hailstones battered its walls, Herries outlined his idea. He told the king of the Crozier clan, which had no allegiance to the crown, but was under no one else’s thumb. ‘Baron Dacre is Crozier’s worst enemy, a fact we could play to our advantage. If your grace could persuade Crozier that leading your army into England would bring about the Warden General’s ruin, you’d have him in your grasp.’
‘Who?’ asked the regent, his mind bleary with drink. ‘Dacre or Crozier?’
‘Both, by God,’ said Herries, his face tightening with dislike. ‘Thistles under all our skins, each as bad as the other.’
‘You seem not to understand it is Henry I want to crush, not his minions.’ The regent sounded petulant. With a glance at Herries, Eglinton joined the discussion.
‘Your grace, it is Dacre who rules the north. Cut off his head, and Henry too spouts blood. With every drop Dacre loses, the king is weakened. Without the Warden General, the region will fall apart. For all his conceit, not even Surrey can hold it together in one piece. Come that day, we can march in and state our terms, and Henry will be in no position to deny us. You would then have peace, my lord, sooner than you could have hoped.’
The regent played with his cuffs. He gave a wintry smile. ‘Just this morning I believed – nay, prayed – I would not see the borders again this side of spring, but it seems I was too hasty. The very thought of making that journey once again chills my bones. But what must be . . .’
He stood and, reaching Herries’s place, laid his hands on his shoulders. He leaned heavily for a moment, his face wiped of its smile, his mind of its claret fog. The implication was clear. Responsibility for this venture lay on Herries’s slate, as much as on the regent’s.
Releasing his grip, he looked round his men. ‘I hear no disagreement? So be it. Where, then, do I find this nest of rebels?’
Herries nodded to the young soldier, who left the room and returned shortly with a folded parchment. It was spread on the table, corners held down by cups. The regent’s eyes widened. ‘What is this?’
‘It is a drawing, your grace,’ Herries replied, ‘composed by the commander of the horse. He has ridden the borderlands all his life, and this is his image of it. Rough, it’s true, but useful. If only we had the same for the rest of the country.’
The commander’s drawing was faint, the cheap ink faded, and well-worn creases had created new rivers and tracks, but what it showed was recognisable as the uncharted terrain the regent had just left. Seeing it laid out before him made him blink.
‘Here,’ said Herries, pointing to the empty lands near the border, marked with nothing but forest and moor. Albany stared at the nameless wild. In his mind he was already there, hostile eyes watching from behind trees, the bodies of lost travellers boiled to a cold broth in the marshland stews. It would not be an easy journey, and it would not be safe. Yet as he surveyed the drawing, the face of this unforgiving domain holding his eye, he felt its pull. Desolate and dangerous as they were, the borderlands were calling. It might be a siren song, but he felt powerless before it.
He straightened. ‘We leave tomorrow, then.’ He turned to Eglinton. ‘Give the order to the captain of the retinue. And you, boy,’ nodding at the young soldier, ‘will be joining them, to keep my gear in order.’
The early snows had melted, and the valleys were bathed in sun, as if to chasten the regent who had expected storms as well as dragons in so benighted a place. The tracks across the hills were impassable in places, strewn with rocks, or dissolved by rain, but the retinue made good time, spending only three nights on the road. Pennants fluttering in the breeze as they passed through Selkirk, the court’s men raised their faces to the sun, the last they might see this year. A straggle of townsfolk stopped to watch them pass, sweeping their hats off or bobbing clumsy curtseys, boots catching their skirts. The regent waved, but his eyes were on the road, not his people.
Some miles later, when Crozier’s Keep came into view, they slowed. The young soldier was sent ahead to warn of their arrival, and Albany allowed time for the clan to prepare. He need not have been so thoughtful. When they approached, his bugler signalling the eminence of their leader, he and his men were shown into a great hall where the fire did no more than smoulder. An evil wisp of smoke escaped the hearth and curled around the legs of the clan chief, who was standing by the fireplace, sword in his belt, dagger in his boot. At his side was his wife, and around the hall the rest of the family sat, stood, or slouched, all shrouded in gloom. There was a flutter above his head, and a hawk flew across the hall, and settled on a beam.
No knee was bowed when the duke was led in, no handshake proffered. The mistress of the house folded her arms over her drab plaid shawl and did not smile. Her dog made as if to sniff out the strangers, but with a click of her tongue the beast was kept in its place. The duke was grateful the animal was given no chance to slaver on his boots.
Crozier asked the regent his business. Inclining his head, the duke suggested they might sit while he explained it, and indicated that refreshment would not go amiss. What was brought from the kitchens confirmed his suspicions that he was in the back of beyond, where nothing had changed since Merlin’s day.
Chewing dry bread and herrings whose sousing had barely softened their bones, Albany sipped a ditchwater ale a
nd forced a smile onto his face. ‘I need your help,’ he began, then paused, as if arrested. Never before in his life had he spoken those words.
Louise was to relive that morning often in the months that followed. At the time she could not be aware it would prove to be the hinge on which her life turned, yet even as the regent and Crozier talked there was a crackle in the air, a sense of unreality that set this day apart. All present knew that whatever the outcome, things were set to change.
At first, Crozier barely spoke. Flint-eyed, he listened as Albany explained his visit. The pair were seated side by side at the head of the long pine table, while the regent’s retinue and the Crozier clan stood to attention at their back, each side watching their lord as a hawk does its handler.
Louise alone could read her husband’s expression. While the regent talked, sentences tumbling out in such profusion it seemed he hoped to drown his listeners in words, Crozier’s mind was at work. When finally Albany wound up his preamble, his digressions, his clever allusions and witty asides, he came to the point. Would the borderer, he asked, bring his men to battle against Dacre? He would make it worth his while.
The great hall hushed. Old Crozier’s fingers trembled as he waited for Adam’s reply. Tom’s eyes narrowed, though he chewed a feathered grass and seemed indifferent to whatever was being said. Benoit stood as if on guard, legs planted, hands clenched. Only the wolf uttered a sound, whimpering in his sleep by the hearth.
The regent’s plea made, he too was at last silent, though his chest rose and fell as he watched his host, trying to anticipate his answer. Crozier’s face said nothing, but while the hall waited for him to speak, he was calculating how far this perfumed visitor could be trusted. Not very, was his estimation. Men like Albany were true to none but themselves. Today he was asking Crozier to be his ally, but as soon as their countries were reconciled, Albany and Dacre might sit at the same table playing cards, or share a day’s fishing on the Tweed. Nothing men like these did would shock Crozier. One thing only he knew for sure: they hated him and his kind. Nothing but desperation could have brought this man to his gates. The borderer lowered his eyes, to hide a flash of calculation. That being the case, he might find terms that would be to the clan’s advantage.
Albany was beginning to wonder if Crozier was slow-witted, or had merely been struck dumb, when finally he leaned forward. ‘What you suggest,’ he said, ‘is impossible. You flatter our clan with your confidence in our powers, but you dangerously underestimate the baron. Dacre cannot be beaten by force. He has thousands of men to call on, not just in the north.’ He sat back, staring so intently at the regent that the Frenchman felt his face grow warm. It was as if the borderer was trying to see into his soul.
‘So you will not help me, then?’ he said, his voice hardening with disappointment.
Crozier shook his head. ‘I suggest, instead, that you help me.’
The regent looked astonished. ‘I assist you?’
Crozier’s mouth twisted in the semblance of a smile. ‘The Croziers will never work for the crown. As you will have been warned, we’re loyal to none but ourselves. Your very presence here makes the stones weep, so unwelcome is the court in these parts.’
There was a shifting of boots behind him as Albany’s men tensed, reaching for their hilts. Ignoring them, Adam raised a hand. ‘Have your men sent out of the hall. Mine too will leave.’ At his command, the clan filed out, all but Louise, whom he gestured to sit beside him on the bench. Unnoticed, the wolf stayed by the fire, eyes closed but tail thumping.
It looked as if the regent would object. His retinue were on the point of drawing their swords, fearing an ambush, when he sighed. ‘So be it.’ Raising his voice, he ordered his soldiers to leave. ‘Await me in the courtyard,’ he said, shaking his head at Eglinton, who looked as if he would protest. ‘This man is well aware of the consequences if he plays foul. I trust him. Clear the room.’
When only Crozier, his wife and Albany were left, the borderer leaned back, stretching his legs as if to straighten his thoughts.
‘I believe we can serve each other’s purpose. Already I have Lord Dacre in my sights, and plan to bring him down. My men and I have lately seen off one threat, a corrupt old henchman of his who learned what we are doing, but I cannot afford to run another such risk. That one nearly proved our undoing. Even so, I am slowly tightening a net around Dacre. With your help I can have him removed from his position far more swiftly, and see the north rid of its guard dog. That brings you a step closer to putting Henry in his place, and setting your court’s affairs on a steady course. A more peaceful Scotland is in all our interests, even those of us out here, whose lives are never quiet.’
The regent’s eyes widened with interest, but he remained thirled to the prospect of battle. ‘That may be true, but I intend to take the Scots over the border, to destroy Dacre’s castles, empty his vaults, and sue Henry for peace – or his throne. That is my way, even if it is not yours.’
Crozier shrugged. ‘I wish you success. Yet whatever the outcome, my business with Dacre will still work to your advantage. In the event of peace, his removal will further undermine Henry. Should you fail, which is more likely, his deposing will be invaluable. He is Henry’s eyes and ears in the borders. Without him, the king will be blind and deaf.’
Albany waved a glittering hand for him to continue. As plain in his speech as the regent was florid, Crozier described his need for denouncers, a band of ill-wishers who would lay their grievances against Dacre before the king. In doing so, he felt a stirring of hope that the game might at last begin to go his way. In that moment he recognised that, until this day, he had known, but never acknowledged, that his venture was all but doomed.
At Louise’s bidding, fresh food and drink was brought by the servants, this time from the kitchen and not the guards’ cellar. Crozier nearly laughed to see the regent sip with caution at his golden ale, and then, with relief, down it like a goose swallowing grain, his throat working hard to slake his thirst. Louise said nothing, but watched as if mesmerised by the regent’s glister. Beneath her wide-eyed admiration she took his measure, and found nothing she liked.
The conversation continued for an hour, and then another. By the time morning had turned into afternoon, Albany had promised an introduction for Crozier to some of the most powerful names in the English north. ‘With my imprimatur, a simple letter will gain you the entry and the outcome you desire.’
Louise left to fetch paper, pen, and candle. ‘The first you must approach is Lord Foulberry of Foulberry,’ he said when she returned, drawing the paper towards him. Glancing up, he looked for recognition in Crozier’s face, but there was none. ‘I advise you not to let him know his fame has not reached this far. He is a proud man.’
His eyes fell on Louise, then flickered back to his host. ‘Foulberry’s lands are on the Solway. He can muster two hundred horsemen, and a small fleet of ships. He has a French wife whose connections are almost as important as his. He is a trusted member of the privy council; she of one of the richest families in the old Norman lands near Cherbourg. Foulberry has long loathed Dacre. I can assure you that, knowing you petition him with my blessing, he will open the door to many who would wish to denounce Dacre, in a way none other in these parts ever could.’
With a practised flourish, he scrawled a note to Foulberry, sprinkled sand upon it, and blew it clean. ‘Here,’ he said, showing Crozier its contents. Crozier nodded, and the letter was folded in half, and half again.
A candle was lit, hot wax dripped onto the parchment, and the regent’s signet ring was pressed deep into the scarlet gout, so red and soft it might have been a courtesan’s pout. Brightened by the flame, Albany’s skin glowed as if it too were wax. He lowered his voice. ‘But there is something more I may be able to do for you.’ Louise watched as his pupils turned velvet, and malice hardened his face. ‘It is just possible that I could put my hands on letters – the most damaging letters imaginable – that, if read by the king, wo
uld condemn Dacre to the Tower.’
‘Letters from Dacre?’ asked Louise, unable to keep silent. He looked at her, as if in pity.
‘I cannot be certain, madame. Indeed, the letters may no longer exist. I have merely heard tell of them.’ He examined his lace cuffs, as if already he had said too much. ‘But if they can be found, and their owner persuaded to part with them, they could prove useful to our cause. Decidedly so.’
‘You know where to find them?’ asked Crozier.
‘I have a fair idea, but offer no guarantee. It seems more likely they have been destroyed, and yet . . .’ The regent spread his hands in apology, and reached for his gauntlets. ‘Now that our deal has been struck, I will make it my business to discover if they have survived, and if so, attempt to acquire them. It will not be easy. It may not even be possible. But if – if – I manage this, I will inform you immediately. That will be a happy day, for all of us.’
He smiled as he stood and held out his hand. Crozier grasped it, and as their eyes met, each knew he had made a pact he had never before thought possible, or wise.
Long after the regent’s party had left, the letter lay untouched. Late into the night Crozier, Louise, Tom and Benoit sat round the table talking, seeming always to ignore, yet never for a second forgetting, the square of parchment with its imperious stamp. It brought with it the smell of the court, an unwelcome intrusion from a world they mistrusted and feared. And yet, as Crozier was obliged to admit, it represented his best, perhaps his only hope of seeing Dacre defeated. When eventually they retired to their beds, he stuffed the missive into one of the hunting horns by the fireplace, and plugged it with moss. He did not want it near them while they slept.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
December 1523
Leaning against the wall by the cellar door, chewing a wad of salt beef, Oliver Barton had watched the regent and Crozier conferring. Elbowed to the back of the group, the sailor had caught only snatches of the conversation before the hall was cleared, but there was no mistaking that by the time the regent’s retinue left an alliance of sorts between Albany and Crozier had been agreed, and that Dacre’s downfall was the knot that bound them. Before the regent’s party had reached the mouth of the valley, the clan had gathered in the great hall. Barton hovered by the fire, cleaning his gutting knife with a pocketful of grass.
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