CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The borderers were Lord Foulberry’s guests for twelve never-ending nights. When the blizzards had passed, and the snows ceased, all paths were blocked. A bitter cold set in, and held its breath. Trees snapped like twigs under the weight of snow, crashing unseen in the depths of the forest and setting off a pattering of snow from the shaken boughs around them. Birds fell lifeless out of the sky, ducks were trapped in glazen ponds, and in the meanest hovels peasants went to sleep never to waken again.
Out on the castle walls, Foulberry’s guards stamped their feet and held their hands to the brazier, but still a few got frostbite. Archers came back empty-handed from the hunt, the river’s fish were safe beneath a frozen lid, and no boats dared brave the sea under skies so forbidding. The smokehouse and the cellar’s stores of salted beef were plundered, and a permanent watch was put on the castle well, to stir it free of ice.
Each day Crozier opened his shutters, praying for a thaw that would allow them to be gone. The morning he woke to a slither of slush off the roof his heart lifted, but it was several more days before it was safe to leave. Those hours dragged, nerves fraying, and tempers with them. Though Adam was polite to his hosts, with Tom and Benoit he was curt.
When eventually they set off, the way was treacherous still. Benoit’s horse sprained a fetlock, with many trudging miles to cover before it could be stabled at a hostler’s inn and allowed to rest. By the time the three reached the keep, the brothers were tired and taciturn, Crozier brooding on the fact that the best part of a month had been lost to the snows. Who knew what Dacre had been plotting while they were fretting before Foulberry’s fires?
Louise feared that Crozier had brought the winter home with him. The confident man who had ridden off had not returned. In his place was a husband whose thoughts were far away. Harsh in look and all but silent, he was distant and unheeding.
In the days that followed Tom too was quiet, his face set as if hardened by the cold. only Benoit was himself, describing to all who would listen the sumptuous castle where they had stayed. Louise’s eyes widened as he painted a picture of elegance, display and comfort unheard of except at court.
When he and Ella were alone, he handed his wife a packet wrapped in linen and tied with a ribbon of bayleaves. ‘What’s this?’ she asked, finding a small wooden box filled with scented wax.
‘Her ladyship’s own recipe,’ said Benoit. Ella ran a finger over the wax, releasing the scent of primroses. ‘She has her own distillery,’ he went on, ‘this poky wee room in the cellars, where she makes perfumed waters and salves. She gied me this for you.’ With a wide smile Ella rubbed the wax onto her lips, making them glisten, though no more brightly than her husband’s eyes at the sight of her pleasure.
Crozier brought Louise no such gift. Isabella had offered him a vial of rosewater for her, but he had shaken his head. ‘She would not appreciate it, my lady,’ he said. ‘She is a country girl, very different from you.’
Tom had looked up, startled at the roughness of his tone. Unconcerned, Isabella crossed the hall in a swirl of skirts, and gave it instead to Tom, ‘for the love of your life, young man. I doubt there’s a woman in these lands who would not enjoy its scent. Even my scullery maids wear it. It makes life for everyone a great deal more pleasant.’
Delighted with her present, Ella showed Louise the primrose balm. Louise held the little box, smooth as a chestnut and scented like the first days of summer. Touching a finger to her wind-chapped lips, she refused Ella’s offer of using it herself. ‘But I will learn to make my own,’ she said, sounding a little grim.
That night, as she and Crozier undressed for bed, she mentioned Ella’s gift. Lady Foulberry, she said, was clearly a clever woman. Ella had shown her the wax, and Benoit had spoken of her ladyship’s powders and perfumes and oils. ‘Did she not offer anything to you?’ she asked, hurrying to get beneath the blankets and furs.
‘Aye,’ said Crozier, ‘she did. But I didn’t think you’d want it.’
Snuffing the rushlights, he joined her under the covers. In the dark Louise reached for his hand, but he was turned from her, his back as cold as his voice. Wrapping her arms around herself, she asked, ‘What is she like, this Lady Foulberry?’
Crozier sighed, then turned, heavily, to face her. ‘She is beautiful,’ he said, ‘in a foreign sort of way. Far younger than her husband, and every inch the lady. She smells like a pitcher of flowers, paints her lips purple and dusts her cheeks white. She covers herself in furs, and wears gowns beneath that would shock a priest and delight most men.’
Louise spoke almost in a whisper. ‘And you – did she delight you?’
‘No,’ said Crozier, his breath warm on her face as he ran his fingers through her hair, the way one comforts a child, ‘she did not. Now, can we sleep?’
Tucked in his arm, Louise heard him sink into sleep but it was hours before she joined him. The image of Isabella Foulberry swam before her. It would not have worried her had Crozier not refused the gift, but why would he do that, if all was innocent between them?
The next day, as she picked her way across the icy yard to the brewhouse, she caught Tom glancing her way. ‘What?’ she asked. Tom shook his head and would have passed, but she grabbed his sleeve and pulled him inside the brewery, where they would be alone.
‘Is something wrong?’ she asked, her voice as low as the vaulted roof. ‘You and Crozier have come home in the strangest of moods. Did anything happen while you were away?’ When Tom looked uncomfortable, she added, ‘Is it about him and that woman?’
‘What woman?’ he asked, so unconvincingly that Louise felt dizzy, as if her fears had been confirmed.
She put a hand on the wall to steady herself. ‘Does he . . . Did they . . .?’
Tom shrugged, suddenly angry. ‘I don’t know if anything happened between them, but this I can tell you: I do not understand what game my brother is playing.’ At Louise’s stricken look, he continued, ‘The woman has little breeding, for all her airs. She could not keep her eyes off Crozier and he, he . . .’ Tom glared at the roof as he picked his words. ‘He did not seem to dislike her attentions. Leastwise, he did nothing to keep her at a distance. And he played with her children as if they were his own.’
‘Her children?’ Louise put a hand to her mouth, as if this were the worst news of all. ‘Played with them . . .?’
‘The most part of each morning, he taught the boys how to fence. They clung to his side when we left. But he promised them he’d be back.’
‘What did her husband make of this?’
‘Lord Foulberry was buried in his books most of the time. Her ladyship flirted with all of us, as if he was in his dotage. All Foulberry did was nod, and smile, and tell the servants to bring more wine. One night I saw him put his hand up a serving girl’s skirt, but if she noticed her ladyship said nothing.’
Louise’s face was whiter than any lady’s powder, and Tom grasped her by the shoulders. ‘Listen, Adam may have done nothing at all wrong. It’s just that he won’t talk to me. I’ve tried asking what he is up to, but he would say nothing except he knew what he was doing, and I should trust him. He said I should not question him again. Then he went silent. You know what he’s like. I would never have dreamt he could do such a thing to you, and I still want to believe he has not, and will not. He adores you. Everyone knows that.’
‘Thank you,’ said Louise, slipping out of his reach and holding the brewhouse door open.
‘I am a fool,’ Tom said guiltily. ‘I should have said nothing.’
‘I’m fine,’ she replied, and gave him a push. With a backward glance he left. His spurs scraped the cobbles as he crossed the yard, his stride so furious he almost struck sparks.
Closing the door, Louise sat beside the copper cauldron, hid her face in her hands and wept. For a few minutes the world went black, as if it had been emptied of everything that mattered. Then she wiped her eyes and got on with her work.
When she returned to
the keep, carrying a pitcher of newly drawn ale, no one noticed her reddened eyes. Crozier was at the blacksmith’s and Ella was quietening her youngest, whose first tooth made his cheeks flame and his cries reach a trumpeter’s pitch. Unobserved, Louise pocketed a couple of apples, saddled her young gelding and left the keep, taking the uphill track that wound high into the valley. The wolf padded at the horse’s side, close to his mistress’s boots.
Once among the trees Louise loosened the reins and let the horse find his pace. Beneath the leafless beeches and oaks daylight was thin, a fragile February blue that promised a cold evening and frosty night. A breeze was gathering, and she closed her eyes, letting it wash over her face. A tear trickled onto her cloak, unnoticed, as she thought about her husband. Last night’s assurance about Lady Foulberry had done nothing to allay her fears, which Tom’s doubts had merely confirmed.
Most wives, she knew, would not dare ask such a question, nor be given an answer. Dalliances were common, not just in houses such as theirs, but in the village’s hovels. No rank was above such things, but the wise hid their indiscretions, appearances mattering more than morals. A wife’s role was to pretend she knew of nothing awry, and to welcome the straying husband with open arms when he had tired of his adventures.
Why should it be different for her? What made her think her marriage was unlike others? She and Crozier were close, but so no doubt were many couples who shared their affections beyond the marital bed.
The gelding picked its way into the forest, snorting in the tickling air, but Louise did not notice where they were headed. Before her eyes she saw not the track or the trees but Crozier’s gaunt face and gentle, horseman’s hands. If he had succumbed to the Lady Foulberry, could she wholly blame him? In ten years of marriage she had failed in her main duty. She would be thirty next year, but had yet to give him an heir. By some standards a childless wife did not merit the title. Since she had not earned the position better call her simply concubine, or housekeeper.
And yet she had tried. At the memory of the family they might have had, Louise lowered her head. Their lost child, in the early years of their marriage, was a grief she had never got over. Dead within days of delivery, as very nearly was Louise, baby Helene was buried in the woods within sight of their chamber window. Confined to bed as she recovered, Louise had stared for days at the trees beyond the shutters, unable to think, or sleep, or eat. Crozier had sat with her, his hand on hers, then would ride out alone, not returning till dark. Since then, there had been no quickening in her womb to raise hope or alarm, and the years turned and passed, bereft of children, but not empty.
Afternoon was fading fast, but Louise would have ridden on had the horse not come to a halt. The wolf padded in circles and whined, uncertain which way to go. They had reached a stream, usually no more than a ribbon, but now swollen with hill-snow and rain. The gelding tossed his head, eyeing the swirling waters. Louise dismounted and patted his neck, turning him back the way they had come. ‘Good boy,’ she said, stroking his nose, and giving him an apple. Leading him homewards, she called the wolf to heel, and walked for a time, her boots scuffing the crispened leaves that, this deep into the forest, had barely been touched by ice. Her eyes ached, as did her head, but a cold calm had settled on her. If Crozier had become enamoured of Isabella she would be desolate, but she had surely played a part. It was she who had urged him to join the ranks of people like the Foulberrys and act as if he was of their kind. It was her ill luck that in Lord Foulberry’s home he had perhaps found the family he had always wanted, and the sort of woman he wished Louise could be. The thought sickened her, but a stony resolve was gathering. She would ask him to take her on their next trip to Foulberry’s castle: not to spy on him, or show her mistrust, but to see what kind of woman this lady was, and to let her know that Crozier’s wife wanted to meet her rival. These were times that called for courage, and she would not lose her husband without a fight.
In the great hall, where the clan was gathered at dinner, Crozier stood by the fire, reading a letter newly arrived by messenger. Seeming not to notice Louise’s riding gear, or her late return, he drew her aside.
‘Lord Foulberry has news of Dacre’s deputy. He writes that Eure will be presiding over the Warden General’s court in Dacre’s absence early next month, and that he has agreed to stay a night with Foulberry, when his business has been dealt with.’
‘Will you meet him?’
The borderer shook his head. ‘Not yet. Although Foulberry has suggested I could eavesdrop on their discussions.’ At Louise’s bemused look he explained. ‘He understands that I might fear they are hatching a plot against me unless I hear their deliberations for myself. His wife has suggested I could be privy to their discussion, but invisible too.’
‘So you would sneak behind the arras and lurk like a thief?’
‘Precisely.’ There was a light in his eyes, and she knew an idea was forming. ‘Or maybe it should not be me. Someone else could do it.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘Tom, I was thinking,’ said Crozier. ‘Better perhaps that it is him.’
Louise put a hand on his arm. ‘Whether it’s Tom or you, can I come too?’
It took a moment for Crozier to register her meaning. When it did, his scorn was scalding. ‘Have you lost your mind? Do you have the first idea of the danger, the risks you’d run? I would rather put my head in a hangman’s noose than let you roam the borders while there is a war on, let alone allow you to set foot in Foulberry’s place.’ He stared at her as if he were stunned.
‘I only thought . . .’ Tears filled Louise’s eyes, and she would have hurried from the hall before they could spill had Crozier not caught her arm.
‘This is not like you.’ He spoke roughly, but there was concern in his eyes. ‘You should not even be out alone on our own lands this late. I was beginning to worry. What is wrong with you? What is the matter?’
The urge to tell him what Tom had said was overwhelming, but at the sight of his exasperation, the fatigue and worry on his face, she kept quiet. She could not bear to make him angry again, nor create trouble between him and his brother. Telling him would change nothing, except to make things worse. Instead she shook her head, and said she was sorry. ‘Sorry?’ he echoed, sounding surprised. ‘What have you to be sorry about? It is I . . .’ But she was already gone.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
March 1524
It was late afternoon, and a bay horse was galloping through the woods. The rider lay low on its neck, whipping it on until his lashes raised weals. An empty stirrup flailed, the man’s left leg hanging useless, and he gripped the reins less like a horseman and more as if he were drowning.
The bay was toiling, eyes wide with strain, but the man in the saddle was unforgiving. On they raced, beneath a canopy of greening trees, across the border hills. Emerging onto empty moor, they picked up even more speed. Only when they found the cover of forest once more did the pace slacken. But when the turrets of Crozier’s Keep came into view, the rider gave a moan and dug in his spurred boot, goading the horse forward. By the time they reached the walls, both animal and man were done.
Louise was in the kitchens when Hob called her to the gates. On the scrubbed pine table, baked trout sat in a row of jars while she heated butter over the fire to seal it for her larder. Crozier, Tom and Benoit were away, at Foulberry’s bidding, and she was in charge of the keep. From Hob’s voice, she knew at once that trouble had arrived. Clattering the butter pan off the fire, she grabbed a cloth and wiped her greasy hands as she hurried after him. At the gates, Wat the Wanderer was holding the horse’s bridle, but there was no need. The creature was blown, running with sweat and barely able to catch its breath. The man in the saddle was swaying.
‘Help me,’ he said, when Louise appeared, ‘please help me,’ before he slumped onto his horse’s neck, the reins falling from his hands. Wat and the guards dragged him out of the saddle, and laid him on the ground.
‘Bring me water,’ said Louise, kneeling to remov
e the man’s helmet, and unbuckle the neck of his cloak. At the sight of long scarlet hair, drenched in sweat, she sat back. She knew this man.
‘He’s yin o the regent’s retinue,’ said Hob, raising him so Louise could trickle water into his mouth.
Gulping the water, the soldier opened his eyes to find himself propped up in Hob’s arms. He looked around in confusion. ‘You are safe here,’ said Louise, as if to a child. ‘Drink this. Then we will get you inside.’
‘Will ye look at his leg,’ said Hob, under his breath. The soldier’s knee was twisted to the side, the leg lying askew like the limb of a puppet whose strings have been cut.
‘It’s broken,’ she said.
Hob nodded. ‘Aye, and badly.’
Gesturing to the guards, Louise followed as they carried the young man into the keep. ‘Take him to the men’s quarters,’ she said, but as she spoke the soldier raised his head.
‘No!’ he wailed. ‘They’re after me. If they find me lying there, they’ll kill me for sure!’
Louise’s heart began to pound. ‘Who is after you? What have you done?’ But the effort of speaking had sent the soldier back into a swoon.
Hob took her elbow. ‘Get him into the hall. We need to keep him conscious.’
Louise ran ahead of the guards to find a blanket. Old Crozier was dozing by the fire, the wolf warming his feet. He woke with a start as she brushed past him, and blinked at the sight of the stranger being carried in like a corpse. He put a hand on the wolf’s head, to keep him quiet. The dog’s hackles stirred, but he made no sound. When the soldier was stretched on the settle, and a rug folded under his head, Hob knelt beside him, and lit a bouquet of crows’ feathers under his nose. At the foul smell, the young man awoke, twisting his head away from the stench, but though it made him want to retch it had cleared his senses. ‘They’ll be here any minute,’ he said, his foreign accent sharpened with alarm.
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