Dacre's War (17 page)

Befuddled though he was, Ilderton made an effort to hide his alarm. ‘Did you manage to find John the Bastard as I suggested?’ he enquired.

Benoit pulled up a stool by the fire and sat, sword on his knee. ‘Pour a drink, and I will tell you all about it.’

Ilderton raised an eyebrow, but dragged a flagon towards him, splashed a tankard full, and held it out to the borderer.

Benoit shook his head. ‘Naw,’ he said, ‘you drink it. I’ve a long ride ahead of me still.’

Ilderton took a sip and was about to set it down when Benoit raised his sword. ‘Finish it,’ he commanded.

As his lordship drained the tankard, his eyes flickered with fear. He was beginning to understand.

‘Fill another,’ said Benoit, though by now the rules were understood.

As Ilderton emptied the first flagon and began on the next, Benoit told him that his messenger was dead. ‘You’ve the backbone of a worm,’ he said, ‘sending a man like that to do yer treacherous work, and take the fall when it gangs agley. He died well, that much I will say.’

Dampness was spreading over Ilderton’s brow. His shirt clung to him from the oils that greased his chest, but sweat began to run down his temples and under his collar. Soon the chemise was so wet it could have been wrung.

‘Fearless,’ Benoit continued. ‘And loyal. Which is not a word,’ he added, ‘that anyone could ever use of you.’ He stood, and filled another beaker, Ilderton’s hand trembling too much to complete its task. He held the tumbler out, but Ilderton shook his head.

‘Enough,’ he mumbled, his tongue blackened by wine.

‘Aye,’ said Benoit, ‘I’m sure for once you’ve had yer fill, but I insist, man. So drink up. Ye dinnae usually sicken o the stuff this easy.’

‘Your accent has changed in the space of a week,’ said Ilderton, knocking back the wine, and pressing the back of his hand to his mouth, perhaps to keep it down. ‘Who are you?’

‘I felt it wis time to be masel’, ken. Since we’ll no be meeting again.’ ‘Who?’ repeated Ilderton, his eyes scanning the room, as if seeking a way out of this misery.

‘Ye asked me that afore, but I won’t be saying. My name disnae matter anyway. And soon,’ he added, staring into the flames as Ilderton hiccupped through another tumbler, ‘nor will yours.’

Wine was trickling down his lordship’s chin when Benoit turned back to look at him. The head of silver hair began to wobble, and it fell forward onto his chest, where he began to sob, the heaving gulps of a helpless man, who knows he is beyond saving.

‘Here, let me gie ye a hand,’ said Benoit, placing a pillow under his shoulders and pressing his head back. He filled another tankard, and held it to the man’s lips, ignoring the bubbling choke as it made its way down.

It was long after midnight when the last pitcher had been emptied. Ilderton lay unconscious, but Benoit had not finished. From his belt he took a flask of spirits, a Teviotdale brew so fierce it was most often used by physicians to stun patients before they went under the saw and knife. Almost as pale as his victim, Benoit tipped the bottle down Ilderton’s throat. He stoppered the flask, took out another, and did the same. And again. Three gills of spirits went down that gullet, and eventually his lordship’s breath grew shallow, and slow.

Benoit’s mouth was twisted in disgust, though whether at the scene or his part in it was not clear. The room reeked of drink. Toppled flagons littered the floor, and the emptied tumbler was lost beneath the furs. Ilderton sprawled on the bed, abandonment in every limb. His chest barely rose. The carpenter took his wrist and felt the dying flutter of a pulse. Then, with a weak cry, the man sat up, though his eyes were closed, and his limbs like butter.

He began to retch, a fountain of dark liquid spewing onto the bed. Benoit pushed him back, but Ilderton tried to turn on his side as another convulsion racked him. Averting his eyes, Benoit pressed a hand on his chest, keeping him on his back so that the vomit flooded into his lungs. His lordship bucked and kicked, but soon the thrashing, the fish-like gasping, the wet, sloshing rattle, were over. Benoit did not lift his hand until he could be certain there was no heartbeat beneath the sodden shirt. When all was still, he stepped back from the bed, made the sign of the cross, and closed his eyes, as if to blot out the memory of this room, which would be with him for the rest of his days.

Stumbling to the door he called for Crozier, who was keeping watch at the end of the passage. Without a word, Benoit brushed past him and made for the stairs. It was Crozier who found the dead body, and in the room beyond it his sleeping brother, the cloaked women at his side. Shaking him awake, he realised that while Benoit had been putting his soul in mortal danger, so too had Tom.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Wherries bobbed on the river beyond the windows of Greenwich Palace, the cries of the ferrymen snatched away by a gusting wind. From the corner of his eye, the cardinal watched his king, while appearing transfixed by the view of sunlight on the Thames. It was a trick he had learned as a boy, taught by his cousin Matt, whose love of catching ferrets Wolsey had shared. The chisel-faced creatures would gnaw their willow bars, eyes screwed tight, and intent only on eating their way out of captivity, or so it seemed. All the time, though, they were watching for an exit, calculating their next move. A moment’s inattention by their young gaolers, and a ferret would make a dash for freedom, wriggling out of the basket and slipping through their grubby hands as if it had been greased. Once out, it would never be caught again, leaving only teeth marks and the stink of terror.

Cardinal Wolsey suppressed a sigh. The most powerful churchman in England, as Lord Chancellor he was quite possibly the most important man in the country after the king, yet, unlike the ferrets, he could never escape. Even if he wished to abandon court, Henry would hunt him down. And most days he did not want to leave. This was home, however uncomfortable, and the urge to flee always passed. Today, it would fade as soon as Henry grew calm. But for the present he could only pray the king’s rage would pass over his head like a fire-eater’s breath. To judge by Henry’s complexion, however, it seemed his fury was blazing too brightly for him to avoid a roasting of some sort.

The crimson of the cardinal’s robes was mirrored in the king’s face, but in other respects too they made a matching pair: square-set, broad-faced, rich food and too much wine swaddling their chests in fat. Wolsey was the elder, but his varicose legs were hidden by his skirts, his gnarled knuckles masked by rings. Nothing about the king was disguised. His hefty calves looked slim as reeds beneath his majestic belly, and the gold brocade jerkin and Italian puffed sleeves gave him the shape of a tailor’s dummy.

Wolsey tapped the back of his own hand in rebuke. It did not do to mock his king, even in his most private thoughts. Henry was like a hunting hound, quick to sniff out disaffection. Even now, as the cardinal turned his back on the palace window, he saw suspicion in his eyes.

‘Has your confidence, does he then? Vouch for him, will you?’ Henry waved a travel-stained letter at the cardinal, speaking so softly that Wolsey was obliged to draw closer. He buried his hands in his cummerbund, to conceal their trembling.

‘Dacre is no fool, your majesty. Nor is he a saint. That I readily concede. There are questions over his probity, as we all know, and there is no doubt he worships the gods of expediency before those of the law. But in the northern territories, as forsaken a region as you will find within your kingdom – more so even than the wastelands of Wales – it takes a rough man to keep the peace, and hold the savages in check.’

The king’s voice thinned, a single string strung so tight, it could snap at any moment. ‘Do not presume to tell us about our own country, your excellency. You speak as if it is a foreign land. Yet we know what happens in every town and hamlet, the sums on each moth-eaten tally of tax, every muster roll and court pipe.’ His eyes had narrowed like a lizard’s in the sun. ‘God almighty may be lord of all things in creation, but in England it is we who see under every stone and blade, into each beating heart.’

Bubbles of froth had gathered at the corner of his mouth, like spume eddying in a rockpool. When the king talked like this, there was no reasoning with him. The cardinal took a deep breath, the pounding of his heart making his throat thicken.

‘Quite so, your majesty. And that is why I, and the cathedral monks, and the college of cardinals, here and in our sister lands, pray earnestly every morning and night for your endeavours as king of these isles and upholder of the true faith. We know only too well the burdens of state and soul that you carry on your shoulders. And none, your majesty, is more in awe of your knowledge and wisdom than I.’

Henry stared at his cardinal for a moment, then paced towards the fire. Spreading his legs before its warmth, he rubbed his hands. ‘You’re a wily old snake, Wolsey. You and me both.’ He laughed, a cackle that made his dogs prick up their ears at a sound so rare.

The cardinal bowed.

‘Nevertheless,’ the king continued, his choler dampened, it seemed, by the flames, ‘our doubts about Dacre cannot be dismissed. They are not mere fancies. Come, sit here beside us.’

They settled on the high-backed bench close by the hearth, whose blazing logs made the cardinal’s veins itch beneath his robes. Henry stretched his daffodil stockings towards the heat and shook his head. ‘Not yet November, and this place cold as a crypt. We dread winter, Wolsey. We would stay abed from the feast of St Nicholas to Easter morn, if we had not so much business to handle. And,’ he added, ‘a wife who’d complain at doing her duty more than once a week.’

Wolsey examined his fingernails, long since bitten to the quick. ‘The Baron Dacre, your majesty, is the best man we have for the job. Warden General is a weighty obligation, and none knows the area, or its troubles, better than he.’

‘It is indeed a grave responsibility, and since he importunes us twice to beg, in the most intemperate terms, to be allowed to relinquish it, we are curious to know why you think him still well fitted for it.’ He examined the letter, as if it could speak, then crushed it in his fist. ‘The man is desperate as a landed carp to be off the hook. And we to see him gone.’

The cardinal opened his mouth to speak, but Henry had taken a draught of air that would last some time.

‘Under his command, the north has been all but lost to us. The rebels are dangerously out of control, the highlanders of the middle march are in open revolt, the east threatens insurrection, and the west is a hotbed of thieves and killers who are in thrall to the warden, not to the crown.

‘When last did Dacre execute more than a couple of miserable miscreants, and then only for appearance’s sake? He cannot maintain the law. Not just cannot, but will not. The criminals are his allies, and the titled are his foes. It is a cockeyed command, Wolsey, everything gone arse over tit, and it makes our head spin just to think of it. Yet here we are, given a heaven-sent chance to set him free and bring fresh order to the north, and you tell us no, leave things as they are.’

The cardinal once more opened his mouth, again to be cut off.

‘Just think, man, we could put Surrey in his place. The best soldier of our times. Truest of our courtiers, so straight he cannot walk up a turnpike stair without stubbing his toes.’

‘But an ailing man, your majesty, despite his high honours,’ said Wolsey, when Henry at last paused to catch his breath.

The king thumped his fist on the bench. ‘Dacre is far older, and a great deal more decrepit! He whines about his gout, his bad leg, his rotting teeth. If I’m to believe his last account, he has so many things wrong with him he can barely piss unaided, let alone mount his horse.’

The cardinal said nothing. He tucked his feet under the bench, further from the fire, but he could feel his face growing ruddy as his king’s.

That ruby moon was now turned towards him. ‘Speak, your excellency, God damn it. What say you to that?’ But to the cardinal’s relief, Henry’s growl was only for show.

‘All you say is true, I have no doubt,’ he replied. ‘Dacre is well advanced in years, yet for my part I trust him better than the earl. Either way, Surrey would not give the post his full attention; he pines for the south, and sunnier climes. Better by far he acts as Dacre’s commander in times of crisis only. For the time being, I feel sure it would create more trouble, worse friction, to appoint a new Warden General.’ He smoothed his skirts. ‘I agree that the baron is highhanded. I do not think he is a criminal, or that he twists justice to his own ends, but there we must differ until there is evidence one way or the other. To judge from his constant complaints about hardship, whatever he makes on the side is far from adequate.’

The king roared, setting his hounds’ tails thumping. ‘Hardship! The very idea is preposterous. The man is rolling in wealth. Eighth richest baron in the land, so Brother Beecham tells us. More spare money to throw around than either you or me, that’s an undeniable fact.’

‘Yet few have his outgoings, your majesty.’ The cardinal caught his eye, and raised a hand in acknowledgement. ‘Fair enough. I will say no more in his favour. Only this.’ He clasped his hands in his lap. ‘Keep him in post, your majesty, on the provision that he pays the cost of any further insurrection and rioting under his rule. And that he metes out regular justice to thieves and thugs. Let him know that no fewer than ten executions a month will satisfy us. That way you are assured that he is working as hard as he can in your interests, and I have the comfort of knowing the best man is still a bulwark between us and the mischief of the north.’

Silence fell, the king chewing his lip as he considered the cardinal’s plea.

‘We will think on it,’ he said finally, rising and calling the dogs to heel. ‘Now be gone. You have exhausted us.’

A servant, till then standing invisible by the doors, opened them with a flourish. Scraping a backward bow, the cardinal left, the flurry of his red robes finding an answer in the hearth as the palace draughts sought out the flames and set them leaping up the chimney.

The king’s seal lay on the parchment like a pat of crimson butter, so large it all but covered the sheet. Blackbird took the letter, and locked it in the baron’s linen chest. The missive was thick, four pages or more. It seemed that Henry had much to say, but he would have to wait to be heard, to lie in the dark until the lid was opened.

Dacre had left some days before on a raid against the Redesdale highlanders, intent on crushing a band of outlaws under a leader who dared to challenge his rule and raze his lands. He returned a few days later in great good humour, the chase and fight filling his cheeks with colour, his heart with fresh blood. He brought with him a handful of prisoners to be flung into Harbottle’s dungeons, the rest already despatched to Hexham, where they would fetch a decent ransom. The prospect of easy money cheered him almost as much as the expedition. It would help equip his newest recruits, whose tackle and arms were so old they had likely seen duty at Bosworth Field.

When the Warden General limped into the castle, the smell of steel and sweat arrived with him. Blackbird met him at the entrance, proffering the king’s missive on a salver. The baron’s barking sallies to his men died, and he halted. The pair stood motionless, despite the mill of servants, dogs and soldiers, their silence swallowed amid the noise. Finally Dacre pulled off his gloves, and picked the letter off the plate.

‘So our majesty still lives,’ he murmured, breaking the seal and scanning the pages beneath. Blackbird heard him catch his breath, then, without a word, he brushed past him, and made for the stairs to his room.

Dusk had long since fallen when Blackbird found him there, staring into the thin blue night. He did not acknowledge his butler’s presence, but Blackbird refused to leave. Setting down a tray of bread and ale by the hearth, he put a lit taper to the fire, and to the rushlight on the walls. Dacre stood rigid at the open window, white-faced in the cold. Drawing the shutters, Blackbird turned him round as if he were a child, and set to unbuckling his swords. When he had stripped off his fighting gear, he helped him into a worsted jacket, and brought out his deerskin boots, regretting their new-polished gleam was lost in the chamber’s dim light.

Dacre placed a hand on Blackbird’s shoulder as he pulled on the boots. Once dressed, he sat by the fire, and nodded to his man to join him. ‘It’s the worst of news,’ he said roughly. ‘The king will not release me. That much I expected. I will reply saying I accede to his wishes, but only until Easter. Christ’s blood, Blackbird, I climb these stairs like an old man. I shit blood, and spit teeth out in my sleep. It is unreasonable to keep me in harness any longer, and he well knows it.’

Blackbird eyed him with concern. ‘Easter is not far off. It’s surely not for a few weeks’ extra labour that you are cast into gloom.’

Dacre rubbed his knees. ‘No. I am disappointed but not dismayed by that. What alarms me, what shows how evilly the king regards me and my trust, is that he insists I must henceforth pay for any losses the raiders cost our people.’

‘What?’ Blackbird squawked.

‘You heard. Whatever destruction is wrought by the Ridleys or the Charltons, or any other ruffians and traitors, in whatever part of the marches, it is I who must foot the bill.’

He shook his head, disbelieving. Blackbird’s eyes widened. ‘But that is impossible. It will ruin you!’

‘That, it seems, is the king’s purpose.’

The butler spread his hands, as if it were his purse that would be emptied. ‘The destruction these men cause, it would cost you hundreds every time they appeared before the law.’

‘Aye. And there’s worse. From now, I am obliged to string up ten men or more every month, to set an example and remind the world whose side I am on.’