Dacre's War

by Rosemary Goring

  Christmas mass had been celebrated, and Father Walsh sent on his way with a mule laden with enough food to last him till Easter. Louise had pressed him to stay, but since Mother Crozier’s death, five years since, the keep held few charms for the priest. Where once he would have spent a week among them, now he returned to the village as soon as his offices had been conducted, preferring his warm house near the church to the Keep’s promise of chilblains. Perhaps too he was glad to escape the reminder of the place where he had given Martha the last rites, touching holy oil to eyelids that for several days before they closed forever had neither seen nor recognised him. Lifting her head at this solemn moment, when the family was gathered round Mother Crozier’s bed, Louise was the only one to notice that the priest’s oil was mixed with his tears.

  Three days of eating, sleeping and loitering within the keep followed the mass, by which time Tom was restless. ‘We need to get back on the road, brother,’ he said, eyeing Crozier with disapproval. Adam sat on the settle by the fire, fondling the wolf’s ears and eating the hazelnuts his wife cracked for him from her stool by his knee. In response, Crozier gave a lazy smile.

  Ella bustled across the hall, two small children trailing at her heels like ducklings, the others seated at Benoit’s feet as he carved a toy from a nub of wood. Nothing had been revealed of what had happened while her husband had been away with the Crozier brothers, yet it was obvious to everyone that he had returned with new confidence, and was treated with greater respect. Whatever had taken place, he had acquitted himself well. That he had told her little did not disturb her, nor did Louise enquire. They did not need, perhaps did not want, to know everything their men did.

  Smiling as she passed her husband, Ella tapped Tom lightly on the arm. ‘For the lord’s sake, give him peace. There’s folk who need a bit of time by their own hearth. Ye’ll be singing a different tune when you’ve got a wife of your own.’ With a sigh, Tom picked up his cloak and left, seeking the village and whatever excitements it might hold this long, dull day. Louise and Crozier exchanged glances, but no one said a word. He was young still, and they were not his guards.

  ‘What do you do next?’ Louise asked Crozier, when the noise of Benoit’s children drowned their words once more.

  ‘Stay here a while,’ he replied. ‘I’m waiting for answers from three houses we’ve spoken to who say they will lodge complaints with the king: Wetherington, Selby and Ratcliffe. I expect their messengers before the snows begin.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Then, but not before, we go back to Lord Foulberry, who has promised to get news of Dacre’s plans. He’s the richest of the lot, and has most to lose from the baron’s thieving ways.’ Placing a hand on Louise’s, though his eyes did not leave the fire, he lowered his voice. ‘It is possible that with Foulberry’s help we could trap Dacre and destroy him. I shouldn’t look ahead too far, but I have this feeling . . .’ He broke off, and looked down at her. ‘I think we might win, Lou. For the first time, I sense it.’

  Louise’s eyes glittered, but she would not cry. Instead, she gripped his hand. This was good news. If Crozier was confident, she would be too. She had never met a man less boastful, or with such a level head. Neither fearful nor a braggart, he had his own measure, by which he gauged the chances of every venture he undertook. Rested after his journey, in the fire’s soft glow he looked almost as young as when they first met, his face lean as ever but its harshness mellowed, or at least muted, after so many years of marriage. The wintry grey in his hair and beard matched his eyes, which held a faraway look as he leaned back and stretched out his legs. Smiling, Louise laid her head against his knee, staring with him into the scented pinewood flames. They were on the cusp of a long and uncertain year but, for the moment, all was well.

  On the last day of January the three set out again. Black specks on a hard-bitten land, they moved like flies across a sleeping face and left no trace but a trail of scuffed frost. Barely a soul was abroad. Smoke rising from the edge of a wood would tell of a hovel nearby, and occasionally they caught a flicker of cloak or nodding hood as a cottager gathered wood, or went on the hunt for rabbits. But few animals were abroad. Foxes lay low, birds kept to their trees, and the fields were empty, their sheep, goats and cattle huddled in pens and byres, where they sniffed the air, sensing snow heading their way.

  Crozier too knew it was coming. As they crossed the border, close by the coast, the wind shifted, and a breath of warmer salt air allowed him to hope they might make the journey in time. So it proved. Changing horses twice, sharing a bed for warmth in inns untouched by brooms or soap, they reached Lord Foulberry’s castle in three days. His black walls offered a cold welcome, their sheer stone broken only by arrow-slits and watchtowers, behind which guards moved on patrol.

  Crozier was again struck by the contrast between the castle’s forbidding exterior and the comfort within. Once over the drawbridge and through the great doors, it was like entering a fairy tale. Newly cut ivy hung in swags from the walls, and its wood-panelled rooms were draped with tapestries brought, had he known it, at painful cost from Isabella’s homeland. Ceilings were painted in such a profusion of colour and imagery, it was as if the ancient myths had come alive before one’s eyes. Fresh rushes, strewn with bay leaves, lined the flagstones, and carved settles hugged the walls, or were gathered around the castle’s many fires, whose blazes leapt so brightly even the hounds had to retreat. On every shelf, table or cranny silverware and pewter caught the firelight and flashed a reply. From a distant corner came the ticking of a clockwork timepiece from Antwerp, its sound so unfamiliar the visitors believed it came from a caged bird.

  For all their awe, the borderers marched in as if they were accustomed to such grandeur. Stern-faced, they followed the guard, who led them to the entrance of the main hall. Servants appeared to take their cloaks, and her ladyship rose from the fireside with her husband to greet them. Ignoring Tom and Benoit, she held out her fingertips to Crozier, who removed his riding gloves to take them, bowing low as he raised them to his lips. Smooth as buttermilk, they were scented with rosewater. Something like a smile softened Isabella’s face as she led her guests across the hall.

  Beneath a corona of candles that hung from the beams, the Foulberrys’ children were playing, wooden swords clacking as the boys pranced around like miniature knights, uttering lusty taunts. Two very young girls sat in a corner near the fire, chattering to their painted dolls, absorbed in their private world. In one of their laps a ginger cat lay curled, like a woodsman’s winter cap, but breathing. Crozier’s expression lightened at the scene, and he bit back a laugh as the boys lunged at each other, uttering startling obscenities, no doubt learnt in the stables. It was their footwork that appalled him, not their language. Were he their father, he thought, he would be drilling them every morning in the yard.

  Foulberry, moving almost at a trot, was oblivious of his ill-taught boys as he led them to his private chamber, off the great hall. The panelling was made from leather squares, stitched together like a quilt, and while the effect was sombre it offered such protection against draughts that the room was warm as a bread oven.

  Her ladyship swept in ahead of Foulberry, her periwinkle skirts bringing a splash of colour to the dull chamber. Benoit squeezed in last, conscious of his size in this cramped space, although he was thinning by the week. Tom kept by his side, watching the Foulberrys. He had not liked her ladyship’s proffered hand, nor Crozier’s chivalrous bow. Nobody was less likely to fawn than his brother, and the act made him suspicious.

  Perched on benches, their swords scraping the floor, the borderers gulped the hot wine her ladyship offered, finishing their mugs before Foulberry had done more than wet his lips. ‘We have news for you,’ said his lordship, nodding to his wife to summon more wine. ‘Most interesting news, most unexpected.’

  Pausing only while fresh mugs were poured, he continued. ‘Selby’s informant, at Harbottle Castle, has been a fount of secret tales.’ A cold smile cro
ssed his face. ‘Not all in Dacre’s inner circle are content, it seems. None dares break ranks, because they fear him too much, but from some words dropped in the servants’ quarters, the Vice Warden, William Eure, is restless. His loyalty, it would appear, is faltering.’

  Isabella Foulberry cleared her throat. ‘Ambitious is surely the word you seek, my lord. It is plain he has an eye on Dacre’s post.’

  ‘Quite so.’ Foulberry looked over his desk at the borderers. ‘Her ladyship is most astute. Always has been, since the day she agreed to wed me.’ He shot her a teasing glance, but his wife had lowered her eyes, fingers pleating her woollen skirts. Crozier doubted it was shyness that made her hide her thoughts.

  Sipping his wine, Foulberry continued. ‘Whatever the motives, Eure’s disaffection could prove most useful for us. Word is he does not wholly approve of Dacre’s methods. A recent raid under Sly Armstrong’s command left him sickened, they say.’

  ‘What happened?’ asked Crozier.

  ‘I am not entirely clear,’ his lordship replied, ‘but it would seem that Dacre was making an example of a tenant who had won his case in his court for damages against his lands and stock. Although a highland band of thieves was the guilty party, it was Dacre who was obliged to pay the recompense. Some new edict from the king, I believe. But Dacre did not want to oblige.’ He picked a speck of dirt from beneath a fingernail. ‘So he set the Armstrongs on the plaintiff and his family. It took place around Ridpath, in upper Redesdale. A nasty business.’

  ‘Scumfishing?’ Crozier guessed.

  Foulberry nodded. ‘The Armstrongs’ favourite tactic but not, it would seem, to William Eure’s taste. It revolts him.’ He pushed his chair further from the table, and spread his hands on his ample stomach. ‘Quite how he has held on to that post so long if he is squeamish is a miracle.’

  ‘It is an unspeakably beastly deed,’ murmured Isabella. ‘One cannot condemn him for his scruples.’

  She glanced at Crozier, who was looking severe, though whether at the talk of people slowly cooked alive in their houses, the lit straw around their homes smoking them like eels, or merely at Foulberry’s news, was impossible to tell.

  There was a pause before Crozier responded. ‘If Eure is willing to stand out against Dacre he has a stronger stomach than most.’

  ‘Maybe I malign him; perhaps I am unjust.’ Foulberry raised a hand in appeasement. ‘It is just that I find it strange a man from that quarter drawing a line at one particular act of barbarity, when he and his associates have committed every cruelty imaginable. His hands, every bit as much as Armstrong’s or Dacre’s, are soaked in blood.’

  Tom leaned forward, his tone abrupt. ‘Does the king trust Eure as he does Dacre?’

  Foulberry raised his eyebrows, as if a child had spoken, unbidden. ‘Why yes, I believe he does,’ he replied, sounding a little surprised. ‘Possibly he places more faith in him now than in the baron, as rumours fly about Dacre’s affairs.’

  Crozier looked at Tom and Benoit, and the three nodded in private agreement. The borderer turned back to Foulberry. ‘We couldn’t hope for better than to turn Eure to our cause, and have him lay before the king all the charges we gather against Dacre. For his deputy to lead the attack would surely seal his fate. But for me to approach Eure while all this is pure speculation and guesswork . . .’ He broke off, shaking his head. ‘Should we be wrong, and Eure still loyal, that would condemn me and my kin to the scaffold.’

  Tom spoke again: ‘Forgive us, my lord, but we have only your word that Eure might be persuaded to become our ally. We need more than that before we can act.’

  ‘But of course.’ Foulberry was unperturbed by the borderers’ suspicion. He looked at his wife, who inclined her head at their guests.

  ‘We understand your caution,’ she said. ‘After all, a month ago we were enemies too, or believed we were.’ She stroked her fox fur, her hand sweeping back and back again so that its glass eyes caught the light as if it were awakening. As the rhythmic gesture continued, without pause, Benoit began to feel queasy. He looked away.

  ‘What we propose,’ said Foulberry, ‘is that we invite Eure to visit.’ Crozier began to speak, but his lordship anticipated him. ‘No, sir, have no fear. You would not be present. Not at that encounter, at least.’ His voice softened. ‘As you can understand, it is almost as dangerous for us to show our hand as for you. We must tread with extreme caution. A wrong step will bring Dacre’s troops down on our heads, which would next be seen on Henry’s block. No, no, gentlemen, we too must be careful.’

  ‘Most careful,’ echoed Isabella, continuing to caress the fox, whose head had slipped off her shoulder, to reveal the low cut of her gown.

  Beyond the chamber’s narrow window, daylight already seemed to be fading, though the afternoon was young. The fire crackled, and the wine and warmth were making Benoit’s eyelids droop. ‘There is much else to discuss,’ said Crozier tersely, misliking the torpor that had crept into the room. Catching his meaning, Isabella rose, gathering her stole about her.

  ‘I will have a good dinner prepared while you and my lord confer. After that, you must spend the night. You need to leave at first light and make good headway before the weather closes in.’

  Tom put out a hand and tried to catch his brother’s sleeve, but Crozier had risen and stepped beyond his reach. He bowed to Isabella. ‘That’s most generous of you, ma’am. We would be grateful to accept.’ Benoit’s stomach gave a rumble of approval as Isabella picked up her skirts and left. Tom’s face darkened, to match the winter sky.

  While the smell of roasting fowl and kettled fish escaped from the kitchen, the men drank and talked. Crozier reported the knights and farmers who had now agreed to put their names to any just indictment of the Warden General, knowing Foulberry was at the helm. There were presently seven, including Foulberry, all from ancient families whom Henry would respect: Lord Ogle, Ellarcar the chamberlain, Thomas Grayson and Malcolm Ridley, each of whom had also promised the aid of others they knew would support this cause, and Wetherington and Ratcliffe. All were respectable, and none coveted Dacre’s position. Yet, as they deliberated the merits of these allies, there was not one of them who was unaware that seven was few against the forces Dacre could muster. A man of his guile might swat away any charges they laid against him, and convince the king that his accusers, and not he, were the traitors.

  ‘We must hope that Henry is already tiring of him,’ said Foulberry, unbuttoning his woollen waistcoat and pushing his chair an inch farther from the glowing logs.

  ‘This is too risky a business to leave to hope,’ said Crozier. ‘We must lay before the king sufficient evidence to be sure that even if he is besotted with Dacre, and loves him as if he were his wife, he would have no choice but to act. The burden of proof lies with us, and I intend to make sure we throw everything there is at Dacre so that even he, snake that he is, cannot slither out of trouble this time.’ Frowning at the fire, he lapsed into silence.

  The summons to dinner brought these gloomy deliberations to an end. A rich meal awaited them in the great hall, so many dishes laid before them that the evening was well advanced before the board was cleared and a final tumbler of sack placed before each man. Foulberry ate as if leading a charge, but his wife did no more than pick at her plate. It was no wonder she was so slender, thought Tom, who spoke little and drank less. More than once he saw her ladyship look down the table at his brother as if hoping for a glance, but Crozier was busy with his spoon, or engaged with his lordship, and appeared unaware of her presence.

  By the time they made for their bedchambers, each in a room of his own, snow had begun to fall. Benoit put a hand out of the window, the night’s touch welcome after the heat of the hall. Leaving the shutters pinned back he got into bed, fully dressed, his sword at his side. All three did the same. Tom and Benoit were soon asleep, but Crozier lay awake, staring into the dark and listening to the wind gusting around the castle, uncomfortably conscious of the dangers they ran und
er this roof and in this country.

  At first light the three gathered in Crozier’s room and looked out upon a veiled, hidden land. Beyond the window fields of white lay beneath a chain mail curtain of falling snow that smothered the country in silence. The men said nothing, but a line between Crozier’s eyes spoke for them all.

  Lady Foulberry met them in the great hall, holding a candle that flickered over the gold in her brocade nightgown, a garment that for once was tied to the neck. Uncapped, her hair fell in a dark plait over her shoulder. ‘How bad is it?’ she asked.

  ‘The snow’s too heavy to travel,’ said Tom. ‘Until it stops we can’t be sure how deep it lies, but it would be madness to set out in this. Already the wind is rising. It’ll soon be a blizzard.’

  Isabella looked grave, her eyes not leaving Crozier’s face, though he said nothing.

  ‘I will go to the stables,’ said Benoit, to break the silence, ‘make sure the horses are fine.’

  ‘No need,’ said Crozier, putting out a hand to restrain him. ‘They will be well looked after, never you fear.’ He turned back to Isabella, and cleared his throat. ‘It would appear we will be your guests for more than a night, my lady. I hope that is not too inconvenient. Be assured, we’ll leave as soon as possible.’

  She smiled as if he had spoken nonsense. ‘It will be not the slightest trouble. Given the service you offer this family, his lordship and I consider you and your men as close as kin. It will be a pleasure to have your company.’

  From the hall behind her came the sound of small feet, and her ladyship’s sons appeared at her side. They were already clutching their wooden swords, ready for the fray. A smile broke out across Crozier’s face and he looked at the older boy, who had pointed his blade at the borderer’s heart.

  ‘If we are to be here for a time, let’s make good use of it,’ he said, pulling out his dagger, and with a flick of his wrist he sent the child’s sword flying into the air. He caught it high above the boy’s head. ‘At the very least, lad, I can teach you how to fight.’ Sheathing his knife, he handed him the sword. With a sulky look the boy took it and hid it behind his back. Only when he saw his mother’s smile did his pout disappear, and he let out a laugh. ‘On guard!’ he cried, and advanced on Crozier, sword pointed this time at his gizzard.