Dacre's War

by Rosemary Goring

  ‘Sir,’ his lordship began, unhitching himself from Isabella, and clasping his hands together as if in prayer, ‘sir, we owe your master a great apology. I did indeed put my name to testimony against him, but it was not done willingly. I was the victim of coercion of the most evil kind, by one whom I dared not offend. My wife here . . .’ Foulberry’s voice broke, and he pressed his fingers briefly to his lips. ‘My dearest wife was taken hostage, and not returned until I had agreed to do his bidding.’

  Blackbird’s eyebrows lifted.

  ‘The man of whom I speak – beast would be a better word – is one of the wolves of the border. Adam Crozier, head of that clan, and the most vile, noxious and pernicious robber in Teviotdale. It was he who betrayed your master.’

  ‘In what way?’

  At some length, Foulberry described the collecting of depositions. ‘Many were given willingly, I am sure, though it grieves me to tell you that. But Crozier needed my name to persuade the others to take part, and that is where he would not take no for an answer. He forced his way inside here, and at swordpoint he took my oath.’ Lord Foulberry turned his face aside, as if the memory were still bitter. ‘I cannot bear to recall it. Lest I be tempted to inform Dacre of what he was doing, he . . . he abducted my wife, and . . . and . . .’

  Isabella touched his arm, and he closed his eyes, as though willing the terrible images to depart. ‘It is all right, my sweet,’ she whispered. ‘I am home and safe; it is all over now.’

  Her husband raised wet eyes to the butler, who was watching the pair intently, but if Foulberry had hoped for sympathy, none was forthcoming.

  ‘I believe there is more you can tell me, is there not?’ Blackbird prompted. ‘Something else beyond the accusations heard in the Star Chamber. Something damaging not just to Dacre but to certain members of the court?’

  There was a glint in Foulberry’s eye as he looked up, quickly concealed. ‘So that is what you are after?’ he murmured. ‘I can help you there, then, my man. Most certainly.’

  Isabella looked at her husband fondly, then turned to the butler. ‘But before he says more,’ she said quickly, ‘what can you offer in return?’

  Blackbird held her gaze. ‘Ma’am, you will have the certainty that if this information helps Dacre secure a speedier release, your slate will be wiped clean, and Dacre not only forgive you but perhaps acknowledge he is in your debt. You can then sleep well at night. I very much doubt you get much rest at the moment, knowing his men could arrive any day.’

  He stared round the hall, with its high black beams from which hung coronets of candles, cold wax curling down their necks like druids’ beards. ‘It cannot be pleasant, sitting on Dacre’s doorstep, after denouncing him as you have.’

  ‘It has been like living in hell,’ spluttered Foulberry. ‘Utter torment. I cannot express to you how this chance to put things right with the baron liberates my soul. I am like a new man . . .’

  ‘Tell me first what you know,’ said Blackbird, ‘and then you can feel shriven.’

  ‘Very well, then. Very well.’ Foulberry fussed with his sleeves, while he chose his words. ‘By devious and no doubt violent means, Crozier obtained letters between the dowager queen and Lord Dacre. Most incriminating their contents were. If they had landed in the wrong hands, your master would already be dead.’

  ‘And who did he send them to? Cardinal Wolsey?’

  Foulberry shook his head. ‘The Duke of Norfolk, I believe. But one can be fairly certain that the duke has informed Wolsey of their contents.’ He sat back, with the beginnings of a smile. ‘Is that likely to prove useful to Dacre? I think it surely must.’

  Blackbird got to his feet. ‘If what you say is true then it might well be what the baron was looking for. You will be informed if so.’ He clicked his heels, the Foulberrys bowed, and he was gone, so fast that they could almost have believed they had conjured him merely from their fears.

  Blackbird rode slowly over the Cumberland fields, enjoying the sights of home. As Dacre had instructed, he had one more duty to fulfil before returning to London, but first he would spend a night or two at Naworth.

  The castle welcomed him with its smell of polished wood and scented rushes. In his absence, the housekeeper and her army of servants had not grown slovenly, and he looked round with approval as he walked through the great hall and down the corridors, glimpsing the orderly rooms beyond. Joan was now home, awaiting her father’s release, since Harbottle was no longer in his command. When his punishment ended, it was here he would return. She rushed to hear word of him, clasping her hands as she plied the butler with questions, though the news he brought of the baron’s good spirits and high hopes did little to soften the anxiety on her whitewashed face.

  He patted her cheek. ‘Fret not, little one. He will be home very shortly, and all will be well. It’ll be just like old times.’

  Tears filled her eyes. ‘You cannot know that,’ she said, angrily. ‘Until he is free, nothing is certain. Nothing at all.’

  The next morning, Blackbird was leading his horse out of the stables when he saw a slovenly figure cross the yard towards the well. It was Oliver Barton, shucking off his shirt before plunging his head into a bucket.

  ‘Hey there!’ Blackbird called him over. ‘What brings you here?’

  Barton approached slowly, shrugging himself back into the shirt. ‘Like everyone else, I’m waiting for Dacre’s return.’

  When he was within reach, the butler grabbed him by the scruff of his shirt, and pushed his face into his. ‘Useless informer you proved to be. Crozier was planning Dacre’s ruin right under your nose, and you saw and heard nothing until it was too late. You send a note, as if that’s of any use now, and save your own skin by getting out before Crozier knew what you were up to. Now I suppose you’re hanging around for your fee, and eating your head off while you wait. But you’d best get out of here before the master gets back. Dacre owes you nothing more than a boot up the arse for wasting everyone’s time.’

  Barton’s eyes registered nothing. He sniffed, and hawked on the cobblestones, and the butler quickly stepped back.

  ‘Aye,’ the sailor said, ‘I found out it was Crozier and his cronies. I had news of that for his lordship, but by the time I reached Harbottle he had gone, and you with him. That is what I was “hanging around” to tell him, in case the letter didnae reach him, or the scribe had got it down wrong. But thank you for the permission to be gone. I might well. Pay me what I’m owed, and I’ll be off.’ He sniffed again, and pulled off his shirt, wiping himself under his arms. ‘Not much round here to keep me amused, that’s for sure.’

  He sauntered back to the well, his ribboned hair hanging in a curl down his naked back like a large, wandering slug.

  The following day Blackbird reached the Tynedale forest. He reined in his horse, and stared at the forest edge, brooding and dark as a curtain wall. Summer seemed to shrivel in its face, light sucked in by the profusion of ivy that snaked up every tree. He drew his knife and laid it across the pommel before putting his fingers into his mouth and whistling. A mimic replied from nearby, and another, a mile or more hence. Staying on his horse, Blackbird did not move. Behind him the hills were bright and warm, but he was glad of his jerkin and cap.

  Soon he heard the sound of feet, and a boy emerged from the trees. With a flick of his head, he instructed Blackbird to follow. Some time later, the butler crossed the river and came to Black Ned’s village. Children flapped and squawked between the hidden houses like the chickens beneath their feet, and their mothers looked on, unmoved, as they pinned clothes onto the trees to dry, or coaxed goats off their low thatched roofs to be milked.

  Legs spread, hat tipped back on his head, Black Ned was seated outside his house, sharpening a quiver of arrows. The butler did not talk for long, and the outlaw scarcely at all. Blackbird gave orders, and handed over a pouch of silver. More, he intimated, would follow on completion of the task. The outlaw’s beard nodded, and the money disappeared somewhere b
eneath his cloak. There was nothing more to say, but for a moment the men looked at each other, the glitter in one set of eyes matched by the glint in the other.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  July 1525

  At the foot of the valley below Crozier’s Keep, where the stream broadened into a river, Louise picked her way across the birch-lined meadow. The silvered barks were almost blinding in the afternoon’s glare. She was stooped, finding plants and herbs for Antoine’s store, to replenish the shelves now he was gone. The soldier had left receipts, but some of his remedies she remembered without help. High summer was when many plants were in flower, and she plucked and pulled, stuffing her bag with willowherb, comfrey and viper’s bugloss. Later, once the plants and their seeds had dried in the sun, she would make the potions and salves Antoine had shown her, ready for winter, when the keep and the village came out in rashes and sores, and people shivered with ague.

  The wolf rustled through the grasses behind her, then sank panting by her side, his ribs heaving in the heat. She sat beside him and put a hand on his head and together they listened to meadow pipits chirruping from the cloudless sky. A pollen haze lay over the meadow, heavy as fog in the still air. Bees droned, broom seeds popped, and a dragonfly hovered, brighter than a rainbow. The wolf put his head on his paws, and dozed. Louise lifted her eyes to the valley and the towering banks of trees, patient under the sun. Her hand rested on her stomach, and the small bump beneath, where her child was sleeping.

  Antoine had been the first to guess her condition, and she still was not sure how he could have been certain. She told Crozier the following evening, when they were alone in their chamber. The expression on his face would be with her for the rest of her life: first disbelief, then a flush of colour that made him look as young and vulnerable as a boy. unable to speak, he took her hands. ‘It is true,’ she said shyly. ‘All thanks to Antoine and his potions. I did not like to tell you, in case they did not work. I dared not allow myself to believe they would.’

  Crozier shook his head, a smile dispelling his shock. ‘What trouble that man was, but may God preserve him now.’

  He put an arm round Louise’s waist, and she placed his hand on her stomach, covering it with her own. She spoke softly, as if not to disturb the new life she carried. ‘We must be careful not to hope for too much. It is very early still. And with Helene . . .’

  ‘Hush,’ he said. ‘It will be different this time.’

  ‘But it might go wrong again. You know it could.’

  Crozier held her close. ‘Be calm. That will not happen. But even if it did, Lou, we will endure, you and I, whatever comes.’

  Sitting by the fire late into the night, they spoke little, contemplating the revelation and the fresh prospects and fears it brought them. The borderer’s face was serious as he eyed the flames. He might have spoken with confidence to reassure his wife, but he was no less anxious.

  For some weeks they kept the news to themselves, until it was impossible to hide, but it was noticeable that, amidst the backslapping and cheers, their joy was subdued. Not even in her most private self could Louise look ahead to the baby’s birth and what lay beyond. Her hopes were so high they frightened her. The child was to be born the month before Christmas, but she dared not indulge herself by picturing its arrival, or imagining how she and Crozier would feel. Until she had conceived this child, she believed she had buried part of her heart with Helene. Now she knew that it was as fully alive as it had ever been, and was yearning to love. Frightened of the pain another loss would bring, she tried to temper her excitement, and so the early days of summer were passed in a see-saw struggle between soaring happiness and dampening common sense.

  On an afternoon such as this, however, it was hard not to let one’s mind drift to the possibilities ahead. Louise smiled, and for a moment closed her eyes, like the wolf, to soak up the sunlight and the benign promise of a contented future its warmth seemed to hold.

  Suddenly her eyes opened, and she sat up straight. She smelled smoke. The wolf yawned as Louise scrambled to her feet, looking up the valley towards the keep. It felt uncomfortably far away from this, its lowest field. Only the tip of the towers was visible among the trees, but no cloud rose from there. Turning in the direction of the valley mouth, she stared, eyes screwed tight against the brightness. She could not be sure, but she thought she saw a thickening of the air above the slopes that hid the village. On a windless day, no ordinary fire’s scent would reach this far.

  Untethering the gelding from its tree, Louise set off at a canter along the riverside. The wolf loped ahead, tongue lolling. The smell grew stronger, and before she came to the road that led into the village fragments of ash began to float past, hanging like moths on the still, hot air.

  It was then the noise reached her: men’s shouts and children’s shrieks and a dismal wailing that made her stomach turn. The gelding snorted, and as they came round the bend to the village it shied at the sight of flames leaping into the sky. The whole place was alight, as if it were a bowl of fire. Cottages burned like braziers, and screams from those trapped within could be heard all too clearly above the savage roar of the blaze.

  Struggling to keep the gelding under control, Louise did not see the horsemen stationed around the village, nor Black Ned, circling his mount among the mill of terrified villagers, and scything heads with his sword. Smoke rolled towards her and her eyes stung as she peered ahead, trying to make sense of what was happening. She could not see those who broke free from their funeral pyres and raced into the street, onto the ends of their tormentors’ swords, but she did hear their choking cries and the raiders’ laughs and jeers.

  The wolf’s demented barking brought her to her senses, but not soon enough. By the time she understood that the village was under siege, one of the horsemen was bearing down upon her, his dim outline thickening as he barrelled through the smoke.

  With a cry, Louise wheeled the gelding, but its terrified skittering was no match for the raider’s warhorse. Axe raised above his head to bring down on hers, the man was about to strike when, as if out of nowhere, the wolf leapt with a snarl and sank his teeth into his shoulder. With a bellow, the rider fell off his horse, weapon thrown aside. Louise dug her heels into the gelding’s flanks, but as the horse careered off and finally found its speed, she looked back and saw the rider stagger to his feet. Teeth bared, the wolf held him at bay, crouched for another attack, but the man’s axe was in his hand again and as the dog flew at his throat he buried it in his chest. There was a terrible twisting of limbs in the air, Saint George and the dragon cruelly reversed, before the dog landed, spread-eagled, its pale coat turning scarlet. The wolf’s dying howl rose over the village and was locked in Louise’s head as she galloped for home.

  The alarm had been raised before she reached the keep, and Crozier and his men were already on the road by the time she reached the forest. They pulled to a halt at the sight of her, and she told them, breathlessly, what was happening. ‘Get home, and close the gates!’ Crozier roared, leading his men on. In a tornado of dust they disappeared down the track, but Louise did not linger to watch. At the keep she set the guards to work, then with Ella gathered the children, Old Crozier and the servants into the great hall. She barred the door, stoked the fire, and finally paused to catch her breath. It was then the pains began.

  At the sound of the Croziers’ horses, the raiders tried to escape. Abandoning the burning village they set off across the fields, but where the smothering smoke ended and clear air began they found the clan, lined up to meet them. The keep’s horses were stamping, and their riders’ swords were fresh.

  Black Ned’s outlaw band were not cowards. They were reckless, undisciplined, but strong, and when the fight was on they did not care what it cost them to win. Benoit and Tom fought side by side, ferocious in their fury, but the battle was hard. Both were sliced by the raiders’s swords, and both saw off their attackers, ending their insolence there, on the hillside, now their last place of rest.r />
  At the other end of the village, Crozier and his archers were picking off those who, driven back to the village, were trying to slip off through the smoke. The arrows found their home, the raiders were brought down, and gradually the sound of shouts and oaths began to quieten. When it seemed the place had been almost emptied of the enemy, Crozier’s men began pulling people from their homes. Some were still alive, though barely, but many were not, and when they broke down doors and found smoking corpses and charred bones, there was no clansman who did not retch.

  There were only two stone houses in the village, the blacksmith’s and the priest’s. Both had been banked high with lit straw, the raiders liking to cook people alive in their homes, as if they were rooks in a pie. A lick of red was creeping across Father Walsh’s roof, but before Crozier reached his door he caught sight of Black Ned, skulking behind the blacksmith’s forge until he could slip off unseen. Quietly, he rode into the yard, behind the smoke-stack of a house. Black Ned gave a snarl when he found himself cornered between outhouse and wall, the only escape blocked by the borderer, whose advancing figure trembled and shimmered in the heat.

  Too close to the burning house, the outlaw’s stallion was frothing at the bit, its eyes reflecting the flames. Crozier’s mare was calm under his hand, and the borderer urged her forward until he could lunge, his sword finding Black Ned’s chest as the raider’s frightened horse bucked and pranced, fighting its rider’s steel grip on the reins. Armstrong’s sword flailed as he tried to hold his beast steady, and a second strike knocked it out of his hand. Before Crozier could draw closer, Black Ned was off his horse, an axe held before him. He began to circle the mare, swinging his blade in an arc that made her snort and shy. A sneer had begun to spread over his face when his stallion, seeing its chance, charged past him, out of the yard. Its back hooves clipped him, pitching him against the smiddy walls, where the straw bonfire had become a furnace, melting the house beneath.