Dacre's War

by Rosemary Goring

  The next morning he informed her of his decision. Joan turned linen white and sat suddenly, as if she had been chopped behind the knees. Losing patience, Dacre grew angry, berating her for being selfish, childish and foolish. She nodded, head lowered, the colour slowly returning to her cheeks. By the time he had finished, her face was flushed. ‘I am sorry for being such a disappointment to you,’ she whispered. ‘I will marry, I assure you. And I will rejoice to do so. Just do not shout at me, I beg.’ And again she ran from the room, weeping into her hands.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  October 1525

  Benoit rode fast up the track to the keep, urging his horse on. The village was slowly being rebuilt, and by the end of each day he and his assistants were exhausted. At dusk he returned to the keep sore-armed and coated in sawdust. Normally he plodded home, letting the aches settle, and planning the next day’s work as he went. Today, though, he was in a hurry. His saddlebag clattered with tools, and as his horse cantered the pack dug into its flanks like a goad. Snorting, it quickened to a gallop, nearly throwing the carpenter off. ‘Whoa!’ cried Benoit, hunched over its neck, but it was too late. The keep’s walls were within sight, and so was the stable, and his mount wanted only to be rid of its burden.

  Clattering into the yard, the beast came to a stamping halt. Throwing the reins to Hob, Benoit ran into the keep. Louise looked up from the table, where she sat with Old Crozier. ‘Where’s Crozier?’ Benoit panted. Disturbed by his haste, Louise began to get up. ‘Naw,’ he said, gesturing to her to stay seated. ‘It’s nothing bad. Just some news he ought to hear.’

  ‘He is up the hill,’ said Old Crozier. ‘You’ll find him at the northern watchtower.’

  ‘What sort of news?’ asked Louise, sinking heavily back onto the bench. Though there was more than a month before her baby was due, she was already weighed down. Seen from behind, she was the slender girl she had always been. Viewed sideways, she was a keg. ‘Another like Benoit in there?’ Ella would tease, though by now her husband was almost as lean as he had been as a youth.

  ‘I’ve heard news of Oliver Barton,’ said Benoit, ‘our snake of a cousin.’

  Louise’s mouth tightened. Barton had brought trouble, as they had feared, and even with him gone his presence could still be felt, as if he were wishing them ill from afar – but not far enough.

  Crozier’s face took on the same tense expression when he returned. As the hall filled for dinner, and the table was laid with food, he and Benoit stood by the fire. ‘It was yin o’ the pledges that saw him, or so he says,’ the carpenter said quietly. Crozier listened, head bent as if the rushes on the floor needed his attention.

  With the peace with England at last arranged, the pledges on both sides of the border had been released. Those who had been held prisoner in castles and houses said goodbye to their polite keepers and their families, more as if they had been on a sociable visit than under threat of execution; those locked in gaols and towers spat their farewells, and had no gracious word for their guards. In the more remote gaols, however, where rules had been relaxed, the pledges had been allowed to roam by day, returning to be incarcerated at night, like sheep to the pen before dark. At such prisons, there were handshakes at parting, and promises of enduring goodwill.

  Whatever the conditions in which they had been kept that summer, all the pledges made their way home unscathed, the ties between them and the enemy strangely strengthened by their ordeal. It was one such, held in the Bishop of Carlisle’s outhouse, who brought news of Barton.

  ‘Jardine remembered him well,’ Benoit told Crozier. The young lord from Kelso, whose father Samuel was one of Crozier’s allies, was an occasional visitor at the keep. Exchanged for one of the Percy heirs, he had been allowed his liberty once a week, if accompanied by a brace of guards. From his prison windows he had seen Barton among Dacre’s soldiers in the bishop’s yard. On one of his outings into the town, he swore he had seen the sailor leaving a tavern in the high street. The man was half blind with drink, but when Jardine shouted his name he had looked round before scuttling into the next tavern, like a rat with a terrier on its tail.

  ‘Jardine wis on his way here to tell you himsel,’ said Benoit. ‘He didnae ken Barton had left us, but he kent fine what had happened to the village. A’body across the marches had heard. It wis his belief that Barton must’ve been involved in that.’

  ‘Mine too,’ said Crozier. ‘I always suspected it. Now it’s clear the man was Dacre’s agent, sent here as a spy. And not just a tale-teller. He was plotting with Dacre to bring us down.’ He looked at Benoit with an air of lassitude that meant he was about to act. ‘How long ago was this sighting?’

  ‘A couple of weeks, just afore Jardine’s release. They also say he has been making himsel at hame at Naworth while Dacre’s been gone. A bit too cosy wi the baron’s daughter for some folks’s comfort, by all accounts.’

  A glimmer of hate crossed the borderer’s face. ‘I will find the felon, and I will kill him. It can’t undo what happened to the village, but we will be avenged. And we’ll all be safer for it.’

  ‘I’ll come with ye,’ said Benoit, putting a hand to his sword.

  Crozier shook his head. ‘No. I must go alone. The keep will be in your and Tom’s care. As will Louise. Her time is not yet near, but I must not have her unprotected.’

  Benoit nodded. ‘We’ll take guid care of her, I swear.’

  From the table, Louise had watched their conversation. ‘What is it?’ she asked as Crozier led her aside.

  As he explained what he intended to do, she grew distressed, but Adam’s decision had been made, and Louise knew she could not – perhaps should not – try to change his mind.

  ‘But what if the baby arrives . . .’ she asked pitifully.

  ‘Lou, you still have some time to go, and I will not be away long. Two weeks, possibly less. If I cannot find him in that time, I will return, I promise. But I need to do this. Who knows how else he will try to destroy us if I don’t deal with him now? He may soon leave the country, and my chance of finding him will be gone.’

  ‘And what if . . .’

  ‘What?’ Crozier almost smiled. ‘What if he kills me? It’s not likely, is it?’ He took her hands in his. ‘Come, love. You have nothing to fear. I will be back, and the baby will be born safely after that. And with Barton dead, the world will be a little less dangerous.’

  She looked at him, and eventually she sighed. ‘I know you have to do this. But I am not as brave as I used to be. There’s too much to lose. If anything happened to you . . .’

  ‘It won’t.’

  ‘You can’t promise me that,’ she said. ‘Nobody can know what will happen.’

  ‘No,’ he replied, taking her into his arms, ‘but we both know it is probably true. And that has to be good enough.’

  She held him tight, her cheek pressed against his chest, where his heart beat slow and strong. Unheard, the echoing beat that lay between them squeezed quick and quiet.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  10 October 1525

  To the roar of the German Sea beyond the windows, a truce was arranged with Scotland. Seated in Berwick Castle, speaking loud so all around the table could hear above the screaming wind, the emissaries of Henry VIII and James V agreed to a three-year settlement. The treaty was signed, the Scottish nobles watching tight-lipped as their erstwhile enemy set their names alongside their own. When the ink was dry, the grey-cloaked Scots stepped forward to shake the Duke of Norfolk’s and Baron Dacre’s hands.

  There was a grudging few minutes of talk. ‘Peace for our countries, and less turbulent times at the palace of Holyrood too, or so we pray,’ said the Duke of Argyll, a chapped smile warming his weather-beaten face as he pulled on his gauntlets. ‘The young king’s guardians are no longer at each other’s throats. They’ve agreed to share his supervision, taking it in turns. So we can hope the squabbling between the dowager queen and her former husband will now be a thing of the past. After all, i
f two nations such as ours can arrange peaceful terms, surely she and Angus, who once shared a bed, can do likewise?’

  Norfolk cackled. ‘There’s no worse foe than a former love, didn’t you know? I wish you and your parliament safe passage until James comes to the throne.’ He did not add that, from what he had seen of the Earl of Angus, every sea he crossed grew as turbulent as his temper. He cast a glance at the baron, who remained impassive. One would have thought the name of Margaret, and reminder of her amours, meant nothing to him.

  There was more desultory conversation before the Scots cast anxious glances at the storm-blown windows, and after a flurry of unctuous bows the room emptied.

  In his room in the west wing of the castle, Norfolk threw off his cloak. Dacre pulled his closer and rubbed his hands, taking a seat by a parsimonious fire. For a moment neither spoke. The past week had been gruelling, messages relayed from the courts on both sides of the border, delays, doubts and last-minute conditions whirling over the negotiators’ heads as loud and furious as the gulls above Berwick beach.

  ‘Well,’ said Norfolk eventually, ‘we did it.’

  ‘Aye,’ replied Dacre heavily. ‘It’s been a good day’s work.’ He lifted his head, and looked at the duke. ‘Of course, we shouldn’t have been at war in the first place. It was all a parade, a waste of everybody’s time, and too many lives.’

  Norfolk raised his eyebrows. ‘You sound disaffected, my lord. Still smarting from your time in the Fleet?’

  ‘Ye might say,’ said Dacre. ‘But tired also of the tricks at court – the Scots being every bit as bad as we are, and maybe worse. But we are all cuckoos when it comes to the keys of power. All feathering our nests at the expense of others, getting rid of our rivals. Even friends are stamped on as we make our way higher, richer, nearer not to God but to the golden apple, which none of us ever reaches.’

  Norfolk frowned, and turned away, to hide his consternation. ‘Are you referring to the lord the king has appointed to the wardenship of the west march? He is a good man, from what I have heard. He will do the job well enough.’

  A snort from the fireside confirmed his guess.

  ‘And what about the keepership of Carlisle?’ Norfolk persisted. ‘I hear you have refused to hand over the keys of the city, though your post has been removed.’

  Dacre’s growl was almost a purr. ‘They can come and get those keys off me, if they dare. Hah! Whelps, the lot of them. Frightened by an old man, are they? Then they don’t deserve to have them.’

  His eyes met the duke’s, red-rimmed and rheumy. ‘The people of Carlisle do not want Henry Clifford. Earl of Cumberland he may be, and a decent soldier, but he knows not the first thing about the city. Whereas I know everything there is to tell about it. It is my home town, my heartland.’

  Hearing the rising note in his own voice, he raised a hand to stem his mounting anger, and sighed. ‘To give back the keys would be like hanging up my boots. That’s about the size of it. It’s a question of pride. Not that I have much of that left. My name is in tatters, my fortune too.’ He stared into the sluggish flames. ‘Not that I care for that any longer. I have enough to settle on my youngest daughter to make a good marriage, and old, widowered chiel that I am, that is all that matters.’

  ‘Come, my man,’ said the duke. ‘What sort of talk is this? You have just helped secure peace for our kingdom. Henry will richly reward both of us. And there is much life left for you beyond being Warden General and Keeper of Carlisle. In your position, and at your age, many men would rejoice to be given their liberty at last.’

  ‘For many years I have been doing the work of many men, your grace, which has been my undoing.’

  ‘Nonsense. You are speaking like a man who needs his dinner. We will eat, and then things will look brighter. You and your servants can set out early tomorrow, and you’ll be back in your lands, with your family, before the week is out. The melancholia of your time in the Fleet has not yet left you, I can see, but it will, I promise you.’

  Dacre looked unconvinced, but he summoned a livelier expression, and took the tumbler of wine the Duke held out to him. ‘To better days,’ he said, as they drank, ‘however few there may be.’

  By morning the storm had washed itself out, and the eastern march lay docile, the sky a weary grey, the land resting and bruised after its whipping. Dacre and his guards made good time as they headed west, and the baron’s mood began to lift. There was truth in what Norfolk had said. Why was he fuming at his dismissal, when for years he had been begging to be released from his yoke? Aye, said another voice, that’s as may be, but ye wanted to remain as Keeper of Carlisle. But ye are not fit for that, argued the first voice. You’re a spent force, a wind-broken horse. Let a younger man do the task. Give up with good grace, and be glad of what ye have. Dacre muttered in reply, but after a few miles the argument petered out, and he allowed himself to enjoy the journey, and the beguiling sight of the trees and hills, their gold and orange fading to chestnut as winter beckoned.

  Two nights later, they reached Naworth. Dacre pulled up as they crested the moorland hills and looked down across the dale, where, far in the distance, the castle nestled. Even from here its magnificence was plain. The best-fortified castle in the region, it was also the best maintained. Fields and woods and villages spread out under its shadow, a small country of which he was king. It was enough, surely?

  The baron turned to his guards. ‘Ye can go ahead, back to the castle,’ he said. ‘Since I am here I will make an inspection of the eastern boundary. Tell Blackbird I will be home before nightfall.’ The guards saluted and rode off, soon out of sight in the thickets below. Alone, the baron looked to the clouds. A damp wind tossed his horse’s mane and freshened his cheek. He turned his face into its breath, and closed his eyes, the westerly’s buffeting firm and friendly as his nurse’s hand when he was a child, and she was soaping him under the pump. Opening his eyes, the baron shook off sentimental thoughts, spurred his horse into a trot, and made his way off the hills.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Little was made of Crozier’s departure. Louise and he said goodbye in their chamber, where she stayed as he saddled his horse and left. Ella found she needed Louise’s help in the kitchens, and the rest of the day passed in chores. Only at night, as she lay in their room, the bed half cold, did she think of what might happen. Crozier was the stronger, but Barton had a cunning her husband could not match, and he might not be alone when they met. Eyes wide in the peaceful night, Louise wished the wind would blow and the rain lash, to match her troubled mood. But the woods were quiet, and the skies clear, and the only sound that kept her company was a fox’s bark, far up the hill.

  Many miles over the border, Crozier lay by his horse, wrapped in a blanket, sleeping lightly. As soon as day began to chase off the dark, he was on his way, he and his mare a dark arrow flying across the moors.

  By nightfall he had reached Naworth. The mare needed rest, as did he, and leading her quietly through the woodland that circled the castle he found a hiding place, on a small rise, where he could settle until dawn. Leaning against a tree, hat over his eyes, he dozed. The mare cocked her fetlock, and her breathing grew slow and deep. A badger snuffled past, giving them a wide berth, but they heard nothing. Overhead, a murmur of leaves soothed them in their slumber, and when voices woke them it was already morning. Soldiers were rising, shouting orders, and scurrying across the castle courtyard to their tasks.

  Creeping through the trees for a better view, Crozier saw there was no way he could get through the gates without being seen. The place was like a fortress, the entrance under guard, the walls ten feet thick. The rest of the morning he spent watching the castle going about its business, servants criss-crossing the yard, soldiers riding out in a posse, a stern-faced captain at their head. It would appear that Dacre was not at home. Nor was there any sign of Barton, though who could tell how many of Dacre’s pack were hiding out in their quarters.

  With the soldiers’ departure, th
e place fell quiet. By late afternoon, none but house servants was around. Crozier bit his lip. Should he bluster his way into the castle, or find a way to creep in at night? Slipping off back through the woods, he made his way to the village. It was dusk when he entered the tavern, a richly appointed wooden-beamed inn whose prosperous air suggested it was patronised by those who had regular pay. Dacre’s soldiers would come here, he guessed, and the baron himself, no doubt.

  At this hour the place was busy, but the landlord noted his arrival, and watched him approach the counter. ‘From over the border, are ye?’ he enquired, as Crozier asked for beer.

  The borderer nodded. ‘Business will be picking up again, now we’re almost at peace again,’ he said.

  The landlord looked sour. ‘Will any truce last? I doubt it.’ He put down the brimming tankard and took Crozier’s Scottish coin, holding it up against the torchlight. Crozier raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Propped against the counter, he took a long draught, then, looking around him as if hoping none would hear, leaned forward. ‘I’m looking for work,’ he said. ‘Maybe you can help.’ Continuing, though the landlord had begun to protest he could be of no assistance, he lowered his voice. ‘I think a cousin of mine is up at the castle. Name of Barton. Hank of tied hair, and a brand on his neck . . .’

  ‘Oh aye,’ replied the landlord, his lips compressing. ‘You’re another of that sort, are ye? You have the look right enough. Well, you might be out of luck. That’s his post there.’ He pointed to the end of the bar. ‘Used to come in every night of the week. But I haven’t seen him for a while. Unless he’s dead, or in prison – and both are likely, if you ask me – he has gone.’