In his ship’s cabin, a few nights later, the regent looked at the letters, spilled across his table. The parchment of several was creased, the ink smudged, as if to alert the reader to what lay within. Tears had been shed over this torrent of words, some of sorrow, more of fury. The dowager queen’s hand was neat, her turn of phrase elegant, but beneath this veneer Margaret’s passions roiled. Written over the space of several years, the most recent little more than twelve months earlier, this was a record of a liaison that would have brought the Scottish court into disrepute, and Henry VIII with it.
It had been placed in Albany’s hand at the dockside. Sailing that evening from the Gare Loch for France, Albany paid the burglar and boarded the ship, which was alive with crew preparing to cast off. He would be back in the country before autumn. If the letters proved as informative as he hoped, they could be put to use then. For now, his thoughts were already in Auvergne, from where his wife’s physician had summoned him some weeks past. If he were honest – and he not always was – there was relief in abandoning Scotland. A more vexing, bitter, quarrelsome parliament he had never encountered. The lords of the realm were thirled to ancient ways and primitive fears, while the common man cared nothing for what his leaders did, or how the country fared, so long as he was left alone to squander his time in the tavern.
When he returned, he would find a way to enforce his rule. Some time at home to reflect on how that could be done would be more helpful than staying here, where his sleeve was perpetually tugged by whining advisers and cavilling courtiers, as if they were children and he a dog whose tail they loved to pull.
Shaking his head as if the tormented dog were ridding itself of fleas, he poured a goblet of Alicante wine, and pulled towards him a clutch of letters, written in a darker pen than those by the dowager queen.
Baron Dacre’s writing was a hasty scrawl, the ink matching the man, but a few lines sufficed to show that the Warden General was canny. Our business must be conducted soon, for the benefit of both our countries . . . I regret the anger I have provoked, and when next we meet will make ample amends . . . My memories of our long and most amicable acquaintance brighten my day, as must all thoughts of the most glorious Tudor line . . .
Only in the last letter, a few lines written in evident haste, did the baron drop his guard. For your majesty’s safety, I press you most urgently to burn all correspondence you have received from me, if you have not already done so. To that purpose, I herewith return your letters, in good faith, that you might know I hold nothing in my possession that could ever bring you harm.
There was a scratch on the regent’s door, and the ship’s captain appeared, his black cap askew from the wind. ‘Wind freshening northwest, your grace.’ He eyed the cluttered desk. ‘Wise to lock up anything that might be spilled. It will be a turbulent night, but it will bring us into Boulogne all the swifter.’
Albany put a finger to his cap, and nodded. The captain bade him goodnight, and with a last lingering look the regent tied up the letters and put them in his trunk. There would be time to read them closely once he was home. Indeed, his wife would be the best judge of what they contained. If ever a woman could read between the lines it was she. A complicated smile settled on Albany’s face as Anne appeared before him, pink-cheeked as the girl he married, not wan as the woman who had lately taken to her bed.
He was anxious, but hopeful. When he returned to her, so would her health. Again he cocked his finger to his cap before emptying the goblet in a silent salute and climbing, fully clothed, into his berth.
‘I hear we have been graced with another of the baron’s complaints,’ said the cardinal, hurrying to keep pace with the king, as he strode across the palace lawns towards the archers’ gallery.
‘As his insolence grows,’ snarled Henry, ‘so our patience thins.’
Wolsey’s skirts caught his slippers as he bustled in the king’s wake. Fearful of tripping he lifted his robes, like a maid on her wedding day, revealing ankles clad in fine white hose. ‘But your majesty,’ he said breathlessly, ‘to be scrupulously fair in this matter, he did concede to stay in post only until Easter. And as he rightly points out, Easter is now past.’
With a cry of exasperation, the king came to a halt. He looked the cardinal in the eye, his own inflamed as if with grit. Wolsey observed the bloodshot whites and reddened lids, and wondered if it was not the king’s erratic health, rather than the waywardness of his courtiers, that wore his temper to shreds.
‘Let us be very clear,’ Henry said, each word of what followed pinned in place by a stab of his cane, until the grass was pitted with holes. There could be no bowls or croquet until they had been filled. ‘Baron Dacre is precisely where we want and need him, and his own wishes mean as little to us as the maundering of . . . of . . .’ – his cane turned up an earthworm, and he flicked it across the lawn – ‘of a wriggling creature as lowly as that.’ The comparison displeased him, sounding weak even to his own ears. He drew a deep breath, suddenly weary. ‘Speak to Surrey. He has heard reports of further trouble from Dacre’s people, who squirm under his command. It may be nothing more than tattle, but there is just the possibility that it is more serious than that. until the matter is settled, he must remain in post. We fear that if we release him, he might slip his leash. And we want satisfaction in this matter.’
He drew close to Wolsey, who smelled the sourness of breath marinated overnight in claret. ‘If the Baron Dacre has been feathering his nest at my expense; if he thinks the north is his bailiwick, rather than ours, we will put him right. Indeed we will. So put your head with Surrey’s, and find out what is afoot. We wish to hear nothing more of the Warden General until you have clarified this matter.’ The red eye wept, and with a shake of his head that sent tears flying the king stomped off to watch his bodyguard exercise their arrows.
At the barracks, Wolsey was ushered into Surrey’s chambers. As befitted a soldier, the rooms were spartan, but the stools by the fire were soundly and amply made, and the cardinal eased himself onto one with a small groan, glad to rest his aching legs.
The earl stood before him, recognising the signs of discomfort, an expression not entirely untouched by pity warming his eyes since they reminded him of his ailing father. Rubbing his hands and their thickening joints, he pulled his stool up and sat knee to knee with the cardinal, the soldier’s plain leather britches sombre beside the rich scarlet gown.
Surrey was holding a sheaf of papers. ‘Our friend in the north is causing ructions. I expect you have had similar complaints to these.’ He waved the papers, and without asking for their contents, Wolsey nodded.
‘Almost weekly, though more from the eastern and middle marches than from the west.’
Surrey examined his knees. ‘That might suggest our man is merely a scapegoat for his enemies’ dislike. His heartland, in Cumberland, remains loyal.’
‘He surely cannot be the marauder they claim if the west is easy beneath his rule,’ said Wolsey, sounding aggrieved at the very suggestion.
‘Or does he merely keep his thieving ways for the citizens furthest from home?’
Both men said nothing, contemplating Dacre, and what he was capable of. It was a long silence – the baron, as they well knew, refused to acknowledge any authority over him – and in that rare moment of accord, the suspicion and enmity between them was temporarily set aside.
Wolsey shook his head. ‘The man is hardly an innocent, we all know that. Expediency is what matters most in these times, and in those parts. It’s my belief he is a master of compromise.’
Surrey held a paper to the firelight at arm’s length. ‘Let me read you this latest. From the people of Bewcastle and Tynedale, who say that instead of punishing thieves and raiders, and making restitution to their victims’ – here he squinted, to decipher the furious hand – ‘ “in default of correction the baron using them in his company familiarly emboldened them in the same misdemeanour, to the great hurt of the said good country”.’
He picked up another letter. ‘Here’s a claim that Dacre’s lack of action against criminals in the shires has resulted in ‘the great increase and emboldening of all the said offenders’.’
Wolsey clicked his tongue in irritation. ‘The same old story. A robber baron in their midst, hand in glove with criminals. But who are these people who are telling tales?’
Surrey’s voice was filled with contempt. ‘Needless to say, they remain nameless.’ He tossed the papers to the floor. ‘To my mind, only a signed complaint carries weight.’
The cardinal’s face lightened. ‘Very wise. None but a coward levels an accusation he dare not put his name to.’
‘Or someone very frightened,’ mused Surrey, sounding uncertain, despite himself. ‘It could be said that their terror of being identified might equally suggest they are rightly fearful of Dacre’s reprisals.’
‘It is a confoundedly annoying situation,’ said the cardinal, his colour rising. ‘Would that Dacre were a more cautious man, and less high-handed. I have no doubt he does an excellent job, and no amount of evidence against him will ever persuade me otherwise.’ He lowered his voice, though they were alone, and the door closed. ‘The king talks of the north being his domain as much as Dacre’s. Yet he has barely set foot north of York. He does not know of what he talks. Were Dacre to leave the wardenship, in times as fraught as these, who knows what would follow.’
Surrey’s beaked face was stern. ‘Again, we are in agreement. The real world is untidy in a manner no king can begin to imagine. Dacre is no fool. He may be unscrupulous – I have little doubt he is as much a master of deceit as of expediency – but he holds the reins of the north at high personal cost. His demand to be freed of this post sits ill with these complaints. A corrupt man would most surely retain his post until he had squeezed every last coin out of it for himself.’
‘And yet,’ said the cardinal, ‘in light of his plea to be discharged, and these most clamorous complaints, we are obliged to institute some sort of investigation. If only,’ he added, heavily, ‘to appease his royal highness.’
‘Indeed,’ Surrey replied. He brushed a speck of mud from his britches. ‘And I will see to it. It will not need, however, to be a lengthy process. I will visit Dacre myself, and see how the land sits. That should suffice to settle matters, for the moment at least.’
‘I am obliged to you,’ said Wolsey, rising with difficulty from his stool. He was unsteady, but Surrey knew better than to offer a hand, busying himself instead with collecting the papers strewn at his feet. With all in his clutch, he fed them one by one into the flames, which leapt at their dinner like ravenous waifs.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
May 1524
Antoine hobbled into the great hall, crutches under his arms, bad leg trailing. In the time he had been at Crozier’s Keep his soldier’s frame had been replaced with a stooped, creaking figure whose halting gait was as painful to watch as Old Crozier’s.
From his fireside seat the old man greeted his new companion. Antoine raised a crutch in reply. He and the white-haired clansman had become friends these past few weeks, Old Crozier regaling him with the history of the family, the valley, and the border. He was also schooling him in the complexity of local affairs, which, thought Antoine, made the wrangling between France, England, Scotland and Spain look half-hearted.
Already the soldier’s English was accented with a border burr, and he understood, if did not use, some of the outlandish words peculiar to these parts. Between them Ella and Old Crozier had taught him the ballads. He could be heard singing to himself as he stumped his way around the courtyard, or disappeared into the woods, where he would sit all afternoon on a fallen tree, lost in silent thought, or carolling to the birds. One day he asked for paper, to set the ballads down. Old Crozier was startled to see that it was not only the words he was recording but the tunes themselves, marching across the page like rooks on a bare tree. Antoine was amused at his astonishment. ‘It is simple, really,’ he said. ‘Bring me a recorder, and I will show you.’
Open-mouthed, Ella’s brood sat at his feet as he picked out the melody on the instrument, each inky rook turning into a note that flew up to the rafters. Andra, Ella’s eldest, could barely contain his excitement, flapping across the rush-strewn floor as the ballad filled the hall and singing louder than a church bell.
It was Andra who found Antoine, later that day, sitting in the woods. The boy approached him slowly, cradling something in his arms. ‘What is it you bring me?’ said Antoine, noting the child’s bowed head.
‘I found him, down by the burn,’ Andra replied, his face streaked with tears.
‘Put him down, boy. Careful now.’
Andra placed the creature at the soldier’s feet. It was a hare, ears lying flat, eyes closed, body quivering with fear. It lay awkwardly, its hind leg useless, as Antoine’s had been. ‘It’s hurt,’ said the child. ‘The crows were pecking it.’
Antoine ran a gentle finger over the hare’s spine. The fur was matted with sweat.
‘Boy,’ he said, putting a hand on Andra’s arm, ‘the kindest thing would be to kill it.’
The child pulled away. ‘No! You cannae do that. If your leg can be mended, so can its.’
Antoine sighed. ‘It’s not so easy with animals. They will not stay still, as I had to. Some die just being brought indoors. They are wild creatures, after all. And a dead hare will be a good dinner for a fox or the crows, who need to eat also.’
Andra shook his head, staring at the grass at Antoine’s feet, holding back his tears. ‘No,’ he said again, kicking the fallen tree. ‘We cannae just do it in.’
‘Very well.’ Antoine fumbled for his crutches and got to his feet. ‘Carry it back to my room, and we will do what we can for it.’
Andra scooped up the hare, which lay limp in his arms, and followed the soldier back to the keep. There, under Antoine’s instruction, he found a stick and, while the soldier nursed the hare in his lap, sanded it smooth of bark and knots. Antoine stroked the animal until its breathing calmed, then felt the damaged limb, fingering it so softly the creature did not move. It was a simple fracture. No bone was splintered, no skin broken. ‘You may have a chance, little one,’ he whispered, binding the hare’s leg to the splint with strips of lint.
A nest of straw was made in a small wooden chest in Antoine’s room, far away from the hounds. The wolf, who had followed them down the passage, put his nose into the box, sniffed the animal, and went back to his place by the great hall fire. From that moment, he added the hare to his duties, guarding him from intruders as he had done Antoine.
While the hare rested, Antoine despatched Andra with a list of plants he must find. ‘I would come, but I will slow you down,’ he said, ‘and the most important is only found on north-facing slopes, so I could not climb there with this leg. Not yet.’
Memorising the list – poppies, shepherd’s purse, sage and honeysuckle – Andra scurried off. When he returned with a pouchful of leaves and stems, Antoine picked through them. ‘Well done, boy. You have found everything I asked for. If anything can save your hare, it will be these. Now, watch carefully.’
Pouring a flagon of water newly boiled over the kitchen fire into a bowl, he added the poppy heads and a handful of crushed leaves and left them to cool. Once the water was tepid, he removed the poppies, placed the bowl inside the hare’s nest, and tucked a sprig of shepherd’s purse under its ribs. ‘And now we will leave him,’ said the soldier, pulling the lid of the chest over the box until only a chink of light reached the hare. As the pair made for the great hall, the hare lay still as a dead thing. Later, when all was quiet, its nose twitched, and it lapped the bowl of water. Then it slept, for days.
Three weeks later, a party from the keep made its way deep into the woods. Antoine and Andra walked together, followed by Louise and Benoit, who was carrying the hare’s box. When they reached the burn, they stopped. Benoit put the box down, removed the lid, and tilted it. The creature hopped out. For a
second it crouched, nose quivering, ears at half-mast, before, with a leap, it was gone, darting left and right into the grasses, and out of sight.
Andra looked on, biting his lip, but at the sight of the smile on Antoine’s face, his eyes lit up. ‘We did the right thing,’ he said to Benoit, who nodded, and placed a hand on his son’s tousled head.
Oliver Barton was restless. He was being kept at work in the outer pastures, farthest from the keep, and felling trees on the fringes of Crozier’s land. It was hard labour, for a man of his age, and in springtime the hours were long. Some days his companions slept over in a stone hut, to save the walk. He resisted this until it became clear his days as lookout on the walls were over. Those long watches had offered the chance to slip away with little trouble. The men he reported to seemed not to care if he was gone a day or two. But out here, as part of the small gang of woodcutters and herders, his absence would be noticed at once.
He was itching to report to Dacre. At the arrival of Albany’s red-haired soldier, he had known something strange was afoot. The Frenchman’s presence disturbed him. Who was this young soldier, and what was his business, first an invalid, and now sitting in an outhouse grinding herbs and blending salves for villagers who brought him their lame mules and worm-eaten cows? Even before he had an answer, the Warden General must be informed.
As the weeks passed, and he found no opportunity to slip off to Harbottle, his impatience simmered, and with it his ill temper. Growing fractious, he was gaining a reputation as someone to be avoided, not only because he was a stranger they could not trust. Quickly angered, he was an alarming sight when carrying an axe. Nobody liked to work alongside him, but sometimes they had no choice. When the foreman broke up a fight between Barton and Wat the Wanderer’s son, in which Barton had bitten Hewie’s hand so hard his finger was nearly severed, the sailor was consigned to a solitary spell in the stone hut. Brooding as he sat on the narrow wooden shelf and watched the day crawl past between the moss-packed stone, he nevertheless laughed. It was the gang who were suffering, not him. They would have to walk the five miles home that night, and back again at dawn, while he could laze the hours away, staring at the stars through the ragged thatch.
Dacre's War Page 21