Dacre's War

by Rosemary Goring

  Crozier smiled. ‘I didn’t mean to frighten them, goodwife,’ he said. She looked at him, suspicion sewing her mouth tight. The borderer edged his horse closer, until he loomed over them, and explained what he was looking for. ‘A peel tower used by Baron Dacre, the man who was Warden General of the English marches.’

  Disdain crossed the mother’s face. ‘I ken him well,’ she said. ‘A killer like a’ the rest.’

  She turned to point east, beyond the hamlet, towards the Scottish border. ‘I couldnae say for sure, but I’ve seen him and his men skeltering down that road often enough. Could be the place you’re speiring after is out that way.’

  Crozier thanked her and turned his horse back onto the track. A misty drizzle set in and he lowered his head against its clammy touch. Behind him lay rich oak and sycamore valleys, but now he was climbing onto barren, scoured hills, the march’s northernmost border scarred as an old soldier’s face by weather and raiders’ hooves. The wind quickened. The sound of whipped grasses and the forlorn cry of a curlew, tossed above the moors like a leaf, made a melancholy music that he had loved since a boy.

  The first peel tower he came upon emerged out of the rain like the bole of a giant oak, dark and menacing against the sky. It looked deserted, and so it proved, after he had prowled around its weeded base, no prints of horse or man near its door.

  The next tower on his path, a few miles on the English side of the border, lay in ruins, wood pigeons resting in the gaping roof, its door an empty mouth. From the knoll where it stood, Crozier could see across grey-lagged hills to the line of spartan heath that marked the boundary of Liddesdale. As he gazed, a curl of smoke met the clouded air from a hidden fireside down the valley, and he caught the smell of its oaky scent, sweet as roasting chestnuts.

  Clicking his tongue, he nudged his horse on, soon coming off the moorland top and into the valley. The wisp of smoke disappeared, then was visible once more, though whether this was a trick of the rain, or of a careless hand stoking the hearth, he could not tell.

  The rain turned from drizzle to downpour, and by the time he reached the slope behind which the smoke issued, the afternoon light was a bruise that would soon darken to dusk.

  The fading day was in his favour. As he rounded the side of the hill, the peel tower faced him. There was no knowing if this was where Barton and Joan were hiding. Retreating and taking cover further up the valley, where trees protected him from the rain, Crozier waited for dark.

  When at last he could approach the keep, he made for the stone hut some yards from the tower. In times of war, all horses would be taken into the keep, but he was in luck. The hut was housing a threadbare mule and a dappled stallion, whose pedigree went back farther, and more nobly, than that of the Dacres. Few in these parts would own such a horse. Crozier noted the expensive bridle, the rich blanket over its back, and knew he had found his quarry.

  That night he slept soundly, under the pattering trees. At dawn, he rubbed down his horse, led her to the stream, and fed her oats. After lashing her reins to a tree, he made his way to the peel tower, where he crouched behind an outcrop of rock, waiting to see what daylight would bring.

  Another dreary day awoke, the sky an ashen shawl. A fug of mist clung to the valley floor, and wrapped itself around the moors. Though the cold and damp were numbing Crozier did not move. Fresh smoke puffed from the tower chimney, and at last the door opened. A tall, crooked figure stepped out, an empty pack over his shoulder. Leaning on a stick, the man made for the hut, and a few minutes later he left, leading the mule towards the track at the bottom of the hill.

  Late that morning he returned, the filled pack strapped across the mule’s back. He dropped the sack at the door before taking the animal into the hut. When he got there, he was unsaddling the mule when a shape stepped out from behind the straw bales stacked by the door and punched him on the side of the head. He fell, face forward, and Crozier had bound the man’s hands behind his back before he realised what was happening. ‘Keep it shut,’ the borderer said, as the man twisted his head to see his assailant. Crozier tied a rag around his mouth and dragged him to the back of the hut, where he bound his ankles. The man tried to speak through his gag, but only squawks emerged. When he felt the grip of the ropes that held him he slumped, his eyes an oily glitter that boded ill for the borderer should he ever get free.

  At the keep’s door, Crozier hoisted the pack into his arms like a child, and knocked hard. After a long wait, he heard steps. The door opened a crack. ‘I’m back,’ he said gruffly, and holding the pack in front of his face, he pushed in, groaning as if with the weight of his burden.

  For a second, perhaps two, he had the advantage, before Barton saw who he was. It was enough. Over the threshold, he was up the steps and into the tower. Hurling the pack behind him, knocking Barton back against the door, he ran into the hallway, saw stairs to the next floor, and took them three at a time. Barton was on his feet, and chasing, but Crozier reached the upper hall, where Joan was seated by a fire that hissed and spat. She shrieked, but Crozier was upon her before she could do more than get to her feet. Arm around her chest, he dragged her to the wall, his knife pointed at her neck.

  Barton came to a halt at the entrance, panting.

  ‘Do something!’ cried Joan, struggling against Crozier’s hold, until the tip of his knife sliced her skin, and with a moan she felt her legs go weak, and a trickle of wet run down her leg to match the blood on her throat.

  Louise was wandering through the woods, lonely without the wolf. She did not go far these days, missing his company and protection. By the stream she leaned against a fallen tree, too weighed down to hoist herself onto it. Her palm rested on her belly, and she felt a kick, one of many that had kept her awake that night. Had Crozier been there, his arm around her shoulder would have sent her back to sleep, but the empty sheet where he should have been stole slumber more surely than the unborn infant.

  A wood pigeon cooed overhead, and a sharp pain shot through her stomach, making her eyes water. When it had passed, she felt sweat break out on her back. She stood, and was beginning to walk back to the keep when another stab made her gasp. She would have fallen to her knees but for knowing that once down, she might not be able to get up. Pressing a hand to her side, she stumbled through the trees. The pains should not have started so soon. There were four or five weeks before this child was meant to come into the world. Biting her lip, she pressed on.

  She had reached the keep and crossed the courtyard before the next spasm. As it swept over her, she called out and leaned against the wall. Running from the stables, Hob was soon at her side, and once the pains had passed he helped her indoors. Ella, coming up from the kitchens, saw at once what was happening. Anxiety spread over her face, but as she hurried to Louise she smiled. ‘Dinnae be feart,’ she said, putting an arm around her. ‘Everything will be fine.’

  Crozier smelled Joan’s fear, and saw the hand creep to her round belly, to protect what lay within. Barton took a step into the hall, knife in his hand. Ignoring Joan, he addressed himself to the borderer.

  ‘Let her go, Crozier. She’s just a girl. Let’s you and me settle this.’ He swiped the knife before him, as if to exercise it.

  ‘Married, are you?’ said Crozier. ‘What godforsaken place is this to bring your bride? You’d think you were ashamed of her.’

  Joan lifted her chin. ‘We have made our vows before God. We’re married in the eyes of the church, and the law. I am of age, and we did not need a priest.’ She spoke like a noblewoman putting a peasant in his place.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Barton, in a tone of sarcastic triumph, ‘we’re man and wife, and nothing can part us now but death. Her father will get used to the idea. And since she’s his favourite, he’ll no cut her out of his will, now will he?’ His eyes glinted, perhaps at the prospect of the wealth that would one day be his, but more likely in anticipation of sending Crozier to his maker. He laughed. ‘Come on, what kind of man would kill me, when there’s
a bairn on the way? You know yoursel, my friend, how precious the wee yins are.’

  The borderer let Joan go, pushing her aside. Drawing his sword, he advanced on Barton. ‘You will be dining with your forebears tonight. You have ruined this poor lass, but that’s nothing to what you tried to do to me.’ He looked the sailor in the eye, but the man could not hold his gaze. Crozier’s voice was soft. ‘Your sweet cousin gives you a roof over your head, I find you work, yet you betray us to Dacre, slithering back to him with news of what we’re doing, like the reptile you are.’ He carved a slice in the air, sending Barton dancing backwards. ‘This is for the village, which Dacre’s men destroyed.’ Another flashing arc sent Barton staggering down the stairs, an arm against the wall to steady himself. ‘That is for the wardens you brought to our door. And now this, and all that follows, for frightening my wife near to death . . .’ The blade scythed through the silence.

  ‘Whoa!’ cried the sailor. ‘My wee knife against that muckle sword, it’s no a fair fight.’

  ‘It isn’t meant to be,’ Crozier said, forcing him down the stairs, the blade drawing closer to his windpipe with every swipe.

  Barton’s eyes darted from side to side, and a slick of hair clung to his forehead, plastered on with sweat. Crozier pressed him back, step by step. The shining steel in his hand held Barton mesmerised. Too late Crozier heard the rustle of skirts behind him, and Joan’s cry as she brought a pair of bellows down on his head. There was a sparkle of brilliant light, a whirl of empty air in which his sword flailed and fell from his grip, and he tumbled down the stairs, landing in an awkward sprawl at the bottom of the steps.

  Before the sailor was upon him, Crozier kicked himself backwards, till his back met the wall. He was dazed, but not hurt. His sword was out of reach, but as Barton scurried for it he lurched to his feet and threw himself on his enemy with a roar. He knocked Barton flying, the sailor’s knife skittering across the stone floor. Joan’s screams told him she was coming down the stairs, but as yet she was no threat. As Barton began to turn, the borderer thwacked him hard on the back of the head, pounding him again and again until his knuckles bled. But the sailor would not be stilled. With a groan, Barton wrenched himself from Crozier’s hold, and swung a punch that cracked his jaw. Panting, the pair closed with each other, wrestling across the floor like crabs. Joan hovered at the foot of the stairs, unable to get near to the sword or the knife.

  Barton tried to get his fingers around Crozier’s throat, but the borderer’s reach was longer. His hands circled Barton’s neck. Though the sailor clawed at his wrists, Crozier’s hold on his thrapple tightened. Barton’s sinews were thick and taut as he strained against his noose, his flesh mottling purple and grey like a turkey-cock’s craw. His eyes were turning bloodshot, the whites marbling with red, and it seemed they must soon burst out of their sockets. With a guttering growl, he gave a last fierce kick, just as Crozier raised the sailor’s head, and, with a powerful twist, broke his neck.

  There was a howl from the stairs, and Joan flung herself on Crozier, fists battering his head. Breathless, he staggered to his feet, and grabbed her arm. A loud slap rendered her for a moment silent; then she began to sob, a girning so abandoned it was as if she had turned feral.

  Hob caught Ella’s arm as she left Louise’s room with a basin of water. ‘How’s she doing?’ he asked.

  Ella shook her head. ‘It’s no goin to be easy. The pains are comin every few minutes, but the baby’s no budging.’ She wiped her face with a forearm. ‘Ye can go and sit wi her, if ye like, while I get mair hot water.’

  ‘Would I no do better to get the midwife from the village?’

  Ella thought of the wifie’s ale-sour breath, the filth on her apron and under her nails. ‘No, lad, she’s safer with us.’

  In the bedchamber Louise lay in her shift, which was moulded to her with sweat. She turned when Hob entered, and gave a weak smile. He was shocked at her pallor, the puffiness of her face, and of the hand she held out to him. This he took, and held between his as if it was something precious.

  ‘It wasn’t as hard with Helene,’ she whispered. ‘I didn’t expect this.’

  Hob rubbed her hand. ‘I’ve seen it with the horses. They strain and strain, and you think it’s never comin, and then it does, and when it’s over they forget as soon as they see their foal, healthy and well.’

  Louise turned her head on the pillow and looked at the window, where mid-afternoon was leaching the light. The room was growing darker, but the tapers had not yet been lit.

  ‘Two days it’s been now,’ she said softly. ‘I’m holding on till Crozier gets back.’ Her eyes were glassy, as if she could see something beyond the shutters that was hidden to everyone else.

  There was no knowing when the master would return, but Hob’s tongue had a mind of its own. ‘He’ll be here soon,’ he said, ‘I ken he will. Just you keep going. You mustn’t give up.’ A lump thickened his throat, and he got up. ‘I’m off to get something that might help.’

  He found Ella in the kitchens. ‘I’ve seen mares in her condition,’ he said, ‘when the foal’s twisted the wrong way round.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, she’s not a horse,’ said Ella, fear making her fierce.

  Hob put a hand on her arm. ‘If you can give her an infusion of dog mercury and juniper, it might help.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ asked Ella, sounding suspicious. ‘How on God’s earth is that going to help our wee lassie?’

  Her shrillness brought Benoit to the door, and Hob explained. The drink would loosen her pelvis, and give the baby more room to move. And, if he mixed it with poppyseed, she would feel less pain.

  Benoit nodded. ‘It cannae harm her, surely. Off you go, lad, and get whatever you think she needs.’

  When he had left, Benoit put his arm around Ella. They did not speak, but both were remembering how different it had been for her. Their children had been born in haste, a splash of broken waters, an hour of wailing, and out they slid, slick and easy as lambs. Wiping away a tear, Ella sniffed, and got back to the stove, where the water was bubbling.

  Upstairs, Louise curled. Her voice was hoarse from moaning, her lips bitten raw. She felt herself growing weaker and so, she knew, was the baby. As darkness fell, the room glowed softly in the light of the log fire and rush lamps. Tears slid down her cheeks. It was like being in a trap, with only one way out, and the doorway growing narrower with every hour.

  That night was a torment, Louise racked with rolling breakers of pain, but the baby unable to move. A dishwater light was seeping through the shutters when Louise pulled Ella close. ‘Get me paper,’ she whispered. ‘I can’t last much longer. I must write to Crozier. He won’t get back in time.’

  ‘Hen, he’ll be here. I promise ye, he’ll get here,’ said Ella, but her tears belied her words and she left, as fast as she could after two days without sleep.

  Hob was in the passageway, propped against the wall. He slipped into the room while Ella was gone, and took a cloth to wipe Louise’s forehead. ‘Have ye drunk the brew?’ he asked, ‘the juniper draught I brought you?’ Louise nodded, though she did not open her eyes.

  Ella returned and, helping Louise to sit up, put paper and pen in her hand. She and Hob watched, bitter-faced, as the crow’s feather scratched over the page. Louise’s cheeks were flushed, but a tear-stained smile lifted her mouth as she pictured her husband, her clumsy pen and ill-spelled words sending him a farewell that he would only read when she was cold and gone. When she was done, she sank back and closed her eyes.

  Benoit was at the door. Ella’s stricken look answered the unspoken question, and he set off at a run to fetch Father Walsh.

  The fire crackled, and from the trees outside a robin scolded the breaking day. Hob looked at Ella, and knew she was defeated. Drawing her to the window, he lowered his voice. ‘No,’ he said. ‘We cannae leave it like this. Ye have to trust me, Ella. I ken what to do.’

  ‘It’s no right, you helpin, wi a woman who’s no your wife.
’

  Hob passed a hand over his face and looked at Ella, who was grey with misery. ‘If I don’t, we’ll lose the bairn as well as her.’

  Shaking her head, but too tired to argue, Ella fetched hot water and cloths, as he instructed. The boy washed his hands, and spoke to Louise, who had passed almost into unconsciousness. ‘Lou,’ he said, ‘I’m going to try to turn your bairn. If the infusion’s done its trick, I’ll be able to reach him. Can you bear any more?’ She gave a moan, and what might have been a nod.

  Lifting her shift, Hob felt gently around her abdomen, and then set to work. What he was doing might save the child, or the mother, but though he did not allow himself to put the thought into words, he did not believe it possible that both would live.

  The messenger returned to Naworth, informing Blackbird, Sir Philip and Sir Christopher that Dacre was close behind. It was already dark, evening closing in around the castle and the dale. Unable to settle, Blackbird paced the hallway. At the least noise he went into the yard, hoping to see the baron’s horse. His master would surely have ridden home fast, to avoid the dark. What was taking him so long?

  Dacre’s place lay empty while the brothers ate their dinner, but when the table was cleared the servants left the baron’s mug and platter untouched. Later, the hour of ten having passed, the cook ventured out to ask Blackbird if he could go to his bed. ignoring him, the butler threw on his cloak, and called for his horse.

  He rode out into the night, knowing he would find nothing good. His master’s health was poor, and he might have been taken ill, stranded on a hillside, waiting for help. How would he feel if he had not gone to his aid?

  Beneath the trees the blackness was smothering, but out on the road a rind of moon appeared fitfully from behind the clouds. He took the eastward path, soon reaching the hills and the boundary of Dacre’s lands, which he followed like a seamstress stitching a seam.

  In the darkness, his horse could go no faster than a trot. Midnight had long passed when he reached the hamlet that lay in a hollow beneath the hills, beyond which the messenger said he had met his lordship.