Dacre's War (15 page)

‘The man needs food,’ said Blackbird, spurring his horse on to catch his master and set this lack to rights.

Some time later, the sanded trail grew bright in the noontime sun. Dacre raised his face, this late warmth an unexpected boon. When they stopped to eat, at Blackbird’s insistence, the grumbling voice in his mind fell quiet, and he recalled instead a real feast, on the cliffs not far from here, when old Henry had been in the north.

‘A fine man, he was,’ he told his brothers, scooping grouse pâté from its jar with his finger. ‘His son would do better if he had his father’s cool head.’

‘You did not always think so well of him, as I recall,’ said Philip, catching a nosedrip with his cuff.

‘Aye, well, I could be a hothead. I was troublesome for him, in my youth.’

Blackbird knew the story well, but seeing his master’s mood lighten he encouraged him to repeat it. ‘Nothing much has changed, seems to me,’ he said, handing round more bread. ‘You were hot-blooded at twenty, and still are to this day. Where’s the difference?’

Dacre considered the question. ‘I know better how to hide my tracks, I reckon. How to keep my mouth shut, and my feuds out of the king’s sight. But I wasn’t that wise as a boy. Who the hell is, at that age? I was a puffed-up braggart, thanks to Bess. I’d ridden off with her under the king’s nose, so I had. A ward of the crown, and still I married her without his consent.’ He slapped his good leg at the memory. ‘Jesus Christ, when I think of it!’ He swigged his ale in belated celebration.

‘Best move you ever made,’ said Christopher, rubbing his fingers together as a river of imaginary coins slipped through them.

‘Aye,’ said the baron sharply, ‘but not for her money or lands. Or not those alone. She was a good wife to me, don’t ever say otherwise. I was not the best husband, but I loved her as well as a man ever could his spouse. And I still do, dust and memory though she is.’

Blackbird passed around greengage pies. ‘But what of the old king? If he did not put you in chains for snatching Lady Greystoke, the richest heiress in the north-west, then why would you fall foul of him for an act of common rioting?’

‘I will never know,’ said Dacre, his wife’s image fading for the meantime. ‘I thought it nothing more than a skirmish. Sir Christopher Moresby and I arranged the day, set the rules, and rode our armies out to test the other’s mettle. I like to think I came off better – Moresby’s northern ally, Baron Parkes, lost an eye, I merely broke a toe – but since I spent nine months in the Fleet, and Parkes barely a week before he was released and packed off home to Scotland, few saw it that way.’

Sir Philip coughed, and hawked onto the grass. ‘You threatened the realm, that’s what you did, you and your magnificent pride. You were like a nine-point stag, going head to head with whatever other big beast wandered onto your land. You never thought what it might mean to Henry’s negotiations with the Scots, never for a moment considered that you were putting years of diplomatic sweat at risk by near as dammit killing a Scottish noble.’ He laughed. ‘You ask me, you were fortunate getting off with a fine and a few months in the cells. Pretty lenient, considering you could have lost your head.’

The baron nodded. ‘I can see that now, so I can. But not at the time. It made no sense to me. I rode out of that prison, back to my wife, and spent the next ten years fulminating. Pity is, I never had a chance to tell Henry I came to realise he’d been right. He avoided me from then, and even when I was called to council and was obliged to attend, I never once crossed his path.’ He picked flakes of pastry from his cloak, licking them from his fingers. ‘Of late I’ve been wondering if he passed his aversion for me on to his son.’

Blackbird was on his feet, packing up. ‘We must be off. There’s a long ride afore dinner.’ Dacre rose from the grass with a groan, shaking his head, as if ridding himself of needless worries. ‘Aye,’ he sighed, ‘a long ride, and much toadying to endure at the end of it before we get a crumb. Look on it as cheap entertainment, the only sort we’ll get this night. At the puritan’s table there’s no chance of cards or dice.’

Blackbird raised a hopeful eyebrow, and the baron’s laugh rumbled in his chest like a deadly cough. ‘No, you old goat, nothing like that either. We’ll all just have to shiver in our beds.’

CHAPTER TWELVE

Late October 1523

Crozier was in the stableyard when Benoit returned. The mare’s flanks were soapy with sweat, and the carpenter’s face shone from the morning’s ride. Crozier held the bridle while Benoit dismounted, and saw the dusting of earth and leaves on his cloak.

‘Did you sleep rough?’

Benoit brushed his sleeves. ‘No, I rode a’ night, thanks to the moon herself. But I should’ve gone slower, for when she took a stumble, a mile or so back, I fell off.’ Hob approached, and Benoit patted the mare’s flank as she was led away. ‘Poor beast, she’s mair wabbit than me.’

‘What was your hurry?’ Crozier asked, growing curious. ‘Could your farmer friend not have put you up for the night?’

Glancing over his shoulder, Benoit lowered his voice, though the stable boys were interested only in mucking out the stalls in time for their midday meal. ‘We must speak,’ he said.

The borderer’s eyes narrowed. ‘Come up to my quarters.’

As they made for Crozier’s rooms, Benoit tried to marshal his thoughts. The chief would be angry, that he knew, but once he learned of Dacre’s resentful son, a bishop to outflank the other pawns on the board, he would surely forgive his disobedience.

He was wrong. When they took their seats in the low-beamed room off Crozier’s bedchamber, the borderer’s expression was benign. Over the years he had grown fond of his wife’s brother, recognising the kindness and loyalty hidden behind that dour, pitted face. But Benoit had done no more than begin his story – ‘I’ve made the acquaintance of yon bastard Rauf Ilderton’ – before Crozier was on his feet, stool kicked aside, affection forgotten in his fury that one of his men had defied his command.

The ferocity in his eyes brought Benoit to a stammering halt. Crozier turned ashen as he leaned over him, pounding the table with his fist as if nailing each word into place. ‘You fool!’ he roared. ‘You utter imbecile, you ignorant wretch. Do you have any idea what you have done?’

Benoit swallowed. ‘I have information . . .’ he began, but Crozier was not listening.

‘You might as well have laid a trail of gunpowder straight to our door. D’you think you have not been followed? Did you really believe you could outwit him? Ilderton is a knave and a killer, and he is ferociously intelligent. He’d have worked you out before you’d said a word.’

Benoit stared at his bitten nails. ‘He doesnae ken who I am,’ he said sullenly.

‘No need,’ spat Crozier, crossing the room and putting some space between them. The first wave of rage had ebbed, and his hands were shaking. ‘He can find you, and us, easy as tracking a wounded stag.’

‘But he dropped a name,’ Benoit persisted. ‘Yin who might lead the charge against Dacre, maybe the very chiel ye’ve been seeking.’

Crozier ran a hand through his hair. Such an act of defiance demanded punishment, and had any other of the clan stepped out of line, they would have been dealt with harshly. Benoit, however, was different. Were it not for his falling into the hands of a murderous traitor ten years ago, on the night before Flodden, Crozier would never have met Louise. Her search for her missing brother had brought her to the borders, and to him. It was a debt Crozier would always owe this man, contumacious, vexatious, pig-headed as he was.

Taking a long breath, he leaned against the wall. ‘Tell me, then,’ he said, one hand clasping the other lest it fly free of its own accord and send this ass sprawling.

Benoit told his story quickly, without the colouring or wry asides he had rehearsed on his way home. This version, he felt, sounded somewhat reckless. A northern stranger rides into an Englishman’s domain, and corners him. He narrowly escapes with his life, but in possession of the name of a man who might help them solve their problems. Even to his own ears it began to sound like a fairy tale. After his account reached John the Bastard and his desire to be revenged on his father, he faltered and fell quiet.

Crozier stared at him. The carpenter looked weary. The chamber felt suddenly airless, though the shutter rattled in the breeze. Soughing leaves filled the room, and Benoit wished he could put his head on the table, and sleep.

‘Ye think I was tricked?’ he asked, meeting Crozier’s eyes at last.

‘All too likely,’ said Crozier. ‘If not, then we will have been fortunate beyond what we deserve. But for now we must work on the assumption that every hour brings Baron Dacre and his men closer. We have to act, and fast.’

Benoit began to speak, but Adam held up his hand. ‘Say nothing more.’ He turned his back, and stared out of the window at the withering leaves beyond. ‘Fetch Tom to me, and join us. I know you are dog-tired, but whatever else this day holds in store, sleep won’t be part of it.’

An hour later the three were on the road, Benoit behind the brothers, his face fixed in shame. He had only one source of consolation: thanks to his riding through the night, they had a chance of reaching Greystoke, and young John’s quarters, before any messenger Ilderton might have despatched.

‘How drunk was he?’ Tom had demanded, when Benoit had again recounted the events of the previous night.

‘Cross-eyed but conscious. Capable of summoning a message boy, but mair likely to have just ordered another bottle.’

‘If that’s so,’ said Tom, ‘we still might have the advantage, if we leave now. It’s two days’ ride, or thereabouts. We don’t know the terrain, but we’ve less distance to cover.’

Crozier nodded. ‘God willing, we’ll intercept the messenger before he reaches Greystoke. Otherwise, we will have to go through with the charade.’ Benoit frowned, bemused, and the borderer sighed. ‘Don’t you see? We must introduce ourselves to John the Bastard, as if we are indeed seeking an alliance, and risk the consequences.’

Tom’s face was grave. ‘Unless we reach him before Ilderton’s man, he’ll have time to prepare for us.’

Crozier looked at Benoit. ‘This is where you get your chance, brother, to prove yourself a riding man. We need you with us. If the message reaches him, it’s you that Dacre’s son will be expecting. If this is indeed a trap, then you need to walk into it as if you’re every bit as simple-minded and credulous as Ilderton believes.’ There was an anxious sheen on Benoit’s brow. ‘Fret not. We will be with you, or close behind.’

‘I will show you whit I can dae,’ said Benoit, flushing. There was a mutinous note in his words. ‘I’m nae coward.’

‘It’s not your courage that’s in doubt,’ was the borderer’s cold reply.

The ride was punishing. His morning’s elation had turned to misery, and Benoit slumped in the saddle, solid as a sack of meal. He barely saw the woods and hills they covered, his mind playing over his foolishness and vanity in thinking to return home to praise. Ilderton’s face swam before his, the eyes filmed with rheum and cunning. Where he had thought he was guddling an unsuspecting fish, had his lordship all the while been reeling him in on a hook? Sweat trickled into Benoit’s beard. They were riding fast, but it was mortification that made his cheeks warm, the reins slippery in his grasp.

They crossed the border and wound deep into the Cheviot hills, the pounding of hooves on heathery tracks lost in a rising wind that carried off the sound of their passing. Despite his gloom, Benoit’s spirits rose. He had never ridden like this, headlong into the dying day. His horse galloped as if he would never tire, but the carpenter’s back and legs ached with the strain of keeping up. The Croziers crouched low over their stallions’ necks, men and horses moving as one, as if fused in a blacksmith’s forge.

Dusk had turned into night before Crozier called a halt. In the shelter of a hillside of ash and oak, by a tumbling, moss-banked stream, they rubbed their horses down, and allowed them to drink their fill. Leaves crackled under their boots, dry as tinder. In the dark, the sound was unsettling. ‘Two hours’ rest,’ said the borderer, passing around oatcakes and cheese. ‘We must be deep into Dacre’s lands when daylight comes.’ He unstoppered his flask and drank. ‘Tom will keep watch,’ he added, stretching out beside his horse, and pulling his hat low over his face. His brother laughed, without humour, but Benoit, at some distance from them both, was already asleep, fists clenched over his chest.

The next few miles were ridden with care, a fitful moon lighting their way through lonely grasslands and cleuchs. When dawn arrived, they grew more cautious. From now until nightfall they were dangerously exposed, yet they must ride as if they had nothing to fear. Scots were common enough on this side of the border, but in time of war tensions were high, and even a stranger from an English shire would be quizzed on his business. A tradesman might pass without too much trouble, but Crozier did not fool himself that he and Tom looked like merchants. if they must meet anyone, Benoit would do the talking. One so fat and sluggish would never be taken for a man of arms.

That day they stayed well clear of villages, roads and herdsmen. A drizzling rain settled over the hills, and soon the land was hidden by smirr, the riders but a blur beneath it. It was only after a second night’s too brief sleep that they reached habitation. Descending from the hills as light broke, they halted. Penrith’s crooked roofs huddled below them, thickening the damp air with woodsmoke. The village of Greystoke lay some miles beyond, and the fastest road was through the town. The riders hesitated. Even at this hour the narrow streets were loud with packmen and horses, setting up stalls and unloading their goods.