Freed the next morning, he promised to reform. But a few days later he started another brawl and laid a woodcutter out cold. This time he was condemned to five days’ confinement.
‘Any more of this,’ the foreman warned him, ‘and it’ll be Crozier himsel who sees to ye. Believe me, ye dinnae want that.’
Head low, Barton slunk off to serve his time in the stone cell. Only when the door had been locked on him did a slow grin spread into his beard. Shut in with a pitcher of water and a muslin-wrapped cheese to see him through, he was happy for the first time in weeks. The woodcutters’ voices were still clear on the evening air when he took out the chisel concealed in his boot, and began to work at the loose stone walls.
The horse he stole from Hob’s top field did its best to throw him, but a man who had sailed the German Sea and the Cornish coast in winter, pitched about deck like butter in a churn, would not be defeated by a border mare. Digging his fingers into her mane, and his boots into her belly, he clung on until she quietened, though he cursed her bony flanks. A few hours later, before sunrise, they trotted through a hamlet. Seeing a rope lying in the street, Barton tied the mare to a tree and slipped into the yard of the biggest house on the street. In a lean-to shack he found an old horse dozing. ‘Easy, lad,’ he said, as it shuffled, ‘it’s no you I’m after.’ Lifting a saddle and bridle off the wall, he backed out.
Barton reached Harbottle the next evening. Weary and hungry after a night on the road, he did not argue when he was shown to the soldiers’ quarters, and given a plate of lamb chops. Blackbird found him there some time later, lying on his pallet, chewing a wad of salt beef like a cow its cud.
‘The Warden General is away,’ the butler said, without ceremony.
Barton narrowed his eyes and looked at Blackbird as if he were blocking his view. ‘When’ll he be back?’ He spat the beef onto the floor, and saw the butler’s mouth tighten.
‘Tomorrow, perhaps. No later than the day after.’ Blackbird’s reluctance to divulge his master’s whereabouts was plain for both to hear. ‘But you can leave a message with me.’
Barton lay back, and put his hands behind his head. ‘I’ll wait a day. There’s no great hurry.’
‘As you will,’ said Blackbird, and left the bunkhouse, uneasy with Barton’s eyes following him. In the sergeant’s office, he took the troops’ captain aside. ‘Keep your eye on that man. He’s the baron’s informant, but a felon of the lowest rank. The sooner Dacre’s done with him, the better.’
Warm and fed, Barton slept well. He rose, washed himself in a bucket of water from the well, and ran his fingers through his hair and beard. Thus freshened, he took his mess, slurping down porridge and bread as if he had no care in the world.
When the captain asked what he would do that day, Barton gave him a sweet smile. ‘Take a ride to the coast, since I’m near. I’m a seafaring man, never right unless I can hear the waves. I will be back by nightfall to see the baron, Deo volente.’
Saddling up, he rode out of the castle and turned east. Harbottle was far below him, nestled in its springtime bowl of green, when he pulled the mare to a halt. Sheltered from the morning breeze by a lonely stand of elms, he watched the castle gates, so distant his eyes watered as he stared. The mare fidgeted, but he held her still, and after a few minutes she dropped her head to crop the grass. An hour later, he saw what he was waiting for. A figure in a long cloak rode out of the gates, followed by a helmeted guard, whose horse tailed hers at a few yards’ distance.
It was just as he had hoped. An old guardsman had been grumbling over dinner the night before at this tedious duty. ‘Waste of my time, and the baron’s money,’ he’d said, gnawing his chop. ‘The girl won’t come to any harm. She never goes far. More likely to meet trouble from the locals with me pointing my sword in their faces.’ A murmur of agreement had run round the table.
‘Still,’ one of the group had said, pushing his plate aside, ‘it’s an easy posting, being nursemaid to a child. Better than chasing thieves and risking your life, like some of us do every day.’ He’d leaned across the table towards the guardsman. ‘Do you sit doing needlework with her of an evening, old man? Sing her lullabies at night, eh – or send her to sleep some other way? She’s not the comeliest I’ve seen, but out here there’s not much choice. Take whatever comes your way, says I. And at your age, be grateful for any port that’ll have ye.’
The man had given a cackle as the guard threw his chop bone at him, and the group had broken up, in laughter and jeers.
When he saw the path they had taken, Barton set off across the hilltop. Some time later, he watched them pass below, and urged the mare down the hill in their wake.
Hearing approaching hooves, the guardsman turned his horse to face the rider.
‘A good morning to you both,’ said Barton, pleasantly, bringing the mare to a walk. He touched his helmet, and bowed to the girl, who was watching him with interest.
‘It is your father’s informant,’ said the guardsman to his charge. ‘We will let him pass.’
‘I am merely ambling to kill the time,’ said Barton, coming to a halt. ‘I would not mind company. I was headed for the white sands at Alnmouth, to give my horse a run. Are ye going that way?
‘Not so far,’ said the guardsman before Joan could answer. ‘Her ladyship is merely taking the air for an hour or two.’
‘But I would like to see the white sands,’ she said. ‘Is it a great distance?’
‘Nothing a good rider would notice,’ said Barton.
‘A journey such as that would take the whole day,’ said the guard. ‘I cannot be away from my post so long.’
‘Yet I am so tired of being cooped up, and it would be an adventure, would it not?’ said Joan, holding Barton’s eye, hers bright with mischief.
‘Perhaps not that thrilling, my lady,’ he said, lowering his gaze modestly. ‘But a fine outing, on a fresh day such as this.’
The guard turned to Joan, and put a hand on her bridle. ‘My lady, this is not a good idea. Your father would not like it. And he will be home soon. If you were gone, and no word of where you were, I would be punished on our return.’
Joan continued to look at Barton. ‘Then let this man accompany me, and you can return to your post.’ He began to argue, but she raised a hand. ‘Do not be afraid. I will take the consequences on my own head.’
Keen as he was to hand her over, the guardsman would not be so easily usurped. The thought of the baron’s wrath were he to relinquish his daughter to a stranger made him sweat. There was a small room in the castle cellars where miscreants were dealt with, and he had no wish ever to enter it.
‘Very well, my lady,’ he said, ignoring Barton, ‘to the coast it is. I hope it will not tire you.’ Slapping her horse’s rump, he spurred his own mount onwards, leaving Barton to catch them up. But the sailor was not disheartened. There would be time enough to talk to Joan in the hours that lay ahead. A fresh plan for his future had filled his thoughts on the long ride to Harbottle, and after the success of this encounter he was beginning to believe it might work.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
William Eure, Vice Warden of the English Marches, did not look like a man able to deal with the borderers. Tall but slight, his head drooping like a bluebell and his voice tremulous as a wren’s, he had the appearance of a clerk or an apothecary. He wore his heavy leather riding gear like a boy who has borrowed his father’s clothes, yet when Crozier shook his hand he felt the strength of the wrist, the swordsman’s punishing grasp, and was reassured. No one reached a position like Eure’s without a heart of iron, and a conscience to match. This man had both, well hidden though they were beneath a sweep of thinning fair hair and pale blue eyes that wept in brilliant sunlight.
Crozier had the advantage at this first meeting, though Eure could not know it. Some weeks earlier, he had eavesdropped outside Foulberry’s private chamber while his lordship and the Vice Warden talked. Crozier had smarted at the mortification of behaving lik
e a house-breaker, creeping beneath the window, huddling against the ivied wall, boots sunk in damp earth as he pressed his ear to the shutter left open, as promised, by their host. Tom was stationed at the postern door as lookout, but the only person who disturbed the night was Isabella Foulberry who, midway through the parlay, appeared with tankards of steaming spiced wine to keep the cold at bay.
At her approach a scolding blackbird had risen from its roost, and she froze by Crozier’s side. Nothing else moved, and when the voices within the chamber continued without suspicion she gave him the mug, her hand covering his glove in a lingering touch almost as warm as the wine. Crozier met her eyes above the candle she carried. She did not smile but pressed a finger to his mouth, as if she feared he would speak. Crozier tasted primrose oil, and inclined his head for her to leave. With a backward glance she tiptoed off, her lamp fading until it was snuffed, and he was again alone in the dark.
Foulberry had placed Eure near the window, though his voice was so soft that some of his words were lost. The first half-hour was wasted in small talk, as the Vice Warden enquired about his lordship’s land, and his affairs, and Foulberry politely asked about Eure’s business at the baron’s court. ‘But I know you did not invite me here to learn how I dealt with this week’s parcel of miscreants,’ said Eure at last, after a detailed description of the unusually harsh punishments he had meted out – twelve hangings, sixteen gaol sentences, two deportations, and the lands of all convicts forfeited.
‘No, my lord,’ admitted Foulberry, ‘fascinating though those matters are. But I certainly admire your zeal, and courage. You will not be popular tonight among the criminal class in this dale. Others, such as myself, will be toasting your name. But as you say, that is not why I need to see you. Or at least, only in part.’
Eure waited while Foulberry stared into his goblet, as if wondering where to begin. From his post, Crozier could see the crown of his lordship’s cap. The Vice Warden was out of his view, but so close that a whistle from the borderer would have riffled his hair.
‘S-s . . . so?’ prompted the Vice Warden at last, unsettled by Foulberry’s silence.
‘You must understand that this conversation can go no further.’ Eure must have nodded, for Foulberry coughed, took a slurp of wine, and leaned towards his guest. ‘The governance of this border has for years concerned many of us. As long as Dacre kept order of sorts, we were prepared to tolerate infringements of our property and our rights. But the baron is now so wildly exceeding his authority, treating his loyal associates with such contempt and piling up riches for himself while allowing his cronies to steal from beneath our noses, that we must put a stop to it.’
‘I have heard many such complaints, Foulberry, and not been able to doubt them all, though what I know of the man suggests he believes he acts for the common good. His methods may be rough, and even dubious, but he gets results. As to pocketing money that is not rightfully his – well, which of us has not done that at some time?’
Foulberry cleared his throat. ‘Dacre might once have been an honourable man, or at least no worse than the rest of us, but as his years advance his tactics grow harsher and more careless. There is no denying he was once a fine leader of men. Few others could have held the border thugs in check. But now I believe he has lost control, and respect. The marches are in the hands of the Armstrongs, not the baron, and most certainly not the king’s appointed men, such as yourself.’
As was his habit, Eure was quiet before he replied. ‘So let me be clear,’ he eventually said. ‘What is it you are suggesting? That we somehow outwit or overpower the baron, and remove him from his post?’
Foulberry nodded.
‘By any means?’ Eure’s pitch rivalled a castrato’s.
There was another pause, and the sound of Foulberry sighing. ‘No, my lord, not by any means. We are men of principle. Dacre may use his accomplices to kill and destroy on his orders, but we must be cleverer than that. If he is to lose his head, it will be by the king’s command, not ours. If we were foolish enough to act like rebels and take the law into our own hands, our lives here would only get worse after Dacre is gone. Rightly or wrongly, Henry dislikes his barons being murdered.’
‘And once he has gone?’
‘Then, my lord, the position is surely yours.’
Again, the chamber was silent. A westerly wind was gathering around the castle, rain on its breath, and Crozier hugged the wall to hear the Vice Warden’s reply. It took a long time. There was the sound of a bench scraping across the boards, and Eure’s pate came into view. He seemed to be saying it was late, and he must retire. There was ill-disguised regret in Foulberry’s voice. ‘But of course. You must rest before your journey tomorrow. I will summon a footman to guide you to your room.’
A bell rang, but before the servant could appear Eure spoke. ‘I must think on this, Foulberry, because I see the merit in what you say. Not for my personal advancement so much as for the marches. It is palpably wrong that Henry is unaware of what goes on here. To advise him would be an act not of treachery but of loyalty. I will sleep on it, and we will talk again in the morning.’
By the time Eure and his retinue set off back to the middle march, he and his host had reached an agreement. If Foulberry could produce written grievances signed by accusers from across the marches, then Eure would add his own testimony on oath, and present these damning documents to the king. Or to Cardinal Wolsey, more like, which amounted to the same thing.
‘Did you bring my name into that conversation?’ asked Crozier later that day, when he and Tom were seated on the bench occupied by Eure the previous night.
Foulberry shook his head. ‘I thought it prudent not to do so. When you can present him in person with the accusers’ sworn statements, all suspicion of you must surely fade. But to advise him in advance that he is to shake the hand of the enemy, and such an enemy as you, might kill our endeavour stillborn.’
Crozier looked at him. After a moment, he stood. ‘I see you are not afraid of risk. That I like. For my part, I undertake to have the signed oaths by the end of the month. We must act swiftly after that.’
‘Once you have assured me they are in your possession, I will summon Eure, and all three of us can sit down together.’ Foulberry advanced on the borderer, both hands outstretched. He grasped Crozier by the arms, his face purpling with excitement. ‘I can scarce believe we are already at this pass. It is beyond my most hopeful dreams.’ He turned to his wife, who stood at the door, smiling on the group. ‘Dearest, our fortunes are about to change, thanks to this man. This most stout-hearted man.’ He pumped Crozier’s hand, and Tom’s, too choked with emotion for further speech.
Lady Foulberry had her hand in her husband’s arm as, at the castle doors, the brothers mounted their horses. They bowed, as did their hosts. Unsmiling, Isabella held Crozier’s eye. The borderer gathered the reins and turned away, and before he and Tom had reached the gates the studded doors had closed on the Foulberrys, who were once again sealed behind their thick walls.
A month and more later, when Crozier was brought into Eure’s presence, the atmosphere in Foulberry’s small chamber crackled as if the unlit fire was in full blaze. ‘Sir William,’ said Foulberry, flushing to match his robe, ‘this is the man of whom I just spoke, in whose great debt we stand.’ He pointed, as if Eure might not have seen the fully armed borderer filling the door. ‘Adam Crozier, my lord, chief of the Teviotdale clan.’
Eure stood up at Crozier’s entrance, but did not proffer a hand. Nor did Crozier, who looked into the Vice Warden’s eyes, and met an expression of rank distrust. His own, he knew, mirrored it.
‘Let us all be seated,’ said Foulberry, fussing to find chairs and stools, as if that was his greatest concern. ‘Isabella, dearest,’ he cried, putting his head out of the door, ‘fetch us wine, if you will.’
Eure raised a hand. ‘No wine, please.’ He moved to the centre of the room, obliging Foulberry to press himself against the empty fireplace. ‘What is
this, good sir?’ The Vice Warden’s voice was so low it might have been a hiss. ‘Have you s-s-set me a trap? I thought we had an understanding. I do not deal with border scum, and well you know it.’
Foulberry paled. ‘My lord, no!’ he cried, as Eure’s hand went to the hilt of his sword. Were it unsheathed in so small a room, everyone present would feel its blade. ‘Stay your hand. This man is our friend. Would I betray you? Listen, I implore you, to what he has to say.’
Crozier, broadsword hilt in his hold, had the advantage. Standing by the door he could draw his sword with ease and bar Eure’s exit. From the sheen on the Vice Warden’s brow it was plain he knew he was cornered.
‘Be assured, Foulberry intends no mischief,’ said Crozier. ‘And nor do I. Of course I am no more your friend than you are mine, but in the matter of Baron Dacre, and ending his rule, we are of one mind. I can be of use to you. And you, I hope, to me.’ Eure stood unblinking. ‘I bring with me signed testimony from the foremost families of the east, middle and western marches. Nine in all.’
As he put his hand into his jerkin, Eure drew his sword. Crozier did not look at him as he retrieved the papers from his pouch. ‘You can put that thing away,’ was all he said, the packet of letters in his hand. ‘Now, we can either sit here and talk, or I can leave. If I go, I do not return, and these depositions go with me. Should that happen, your king will soon hear that his Vice Warden tried to obstruct justice in his lands, and I doubt the news will please him. A vengeful king, if what I hear is true. But then, we are all vengeful these days.’
Eure hesitated, looking from Crozier to Foulberry, his quickened breath loud in the cramped chamber. It was his host’s face that finally reassured him; nothing in Crozier’s offered comfort. Sheathing his sword, he spoke grudgingly. ‘Talk, then. And show me the statements. Then I will decide what to do.’
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