Dacre's War (33 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

November 1524

The night before he and Benoit left for France, Crozier spoke to his wife as he had not done for weeks. Alone in their bedchamber, as Louise filled his pack for the journey, they each felt the unspoken hurt that lay between them.

At times in the past few months Louise had thought she must be dreaming, since nothing on this earth could diminish the love they had for each other, and she must soon wake from this misery. But the plodding beat of her heart, the dragging days when Crozier seemed barely to see her, the distance that descended in bed as soon as their gasps faded – even this conducted as if they hoped to deceive themselves that nothing had changed – all this told her that she was deluded. As she was slowly coming to see, disbelief might for a while provide some comfort, but it was no defence against the truth that she must one day steel herself to face: that their marriage had been tarnished, and was now dull.

‘Why, if you are going to France, do you need first visit the Foulberrys?’ she asked as she folded his shirts, unable to keep the edge from her voice. ‘Could you not take a boat from this side of the border, and get away sooner?’

Crozier put down the boots he was waxing. ‘I need Foulberry’s help. He has a boat and a skipper who can take us to Cherbourg, and his wife’s family have livery stables in the town where we can hire horses. Foulberry will come with us – he knows the road to Paris – but this is the last time, I hope, that I will need his help.’ He put a hand on Louise’s wrist. ‘Believe me, Lou, after this visit I wish never to see him or his wretched wife again.’

Louise stopped packing. Tears filled her eyes, but she would not let him see them. If Isabella had meant something to him, even for a night, she would remain between them for the rest of their lives. Crozier might regret whatever he had done, he might even tell himself it had been nothing, but these stony few months told her that in this, if nothing else, he was not being wholly honest.

She turned to the window, to close the shutters, and stood listening to the rising wind. ‘It’s a bad time to sail. I won’t be easy until you are home.’

Crozier joined her, and pulled her round to face him. ‘Nor will i. But you must know I will be thinking of you every mile. Pray God when I come home we can begin to live normally once more.’

Lady Foulberry rose from her fireside when the borderers arrived, and spread her arms so wide her furs slid from her shoulders.

‘Gentlemen,’ she trilled, ‘i am overjoyed to see you. His lordship has been talking of nothing else these past few days.’ Drawing her arm through Benoit’s, she led them to the bench by the hearth.

Lord Foulberry joined them shortly, and the evening began with a heated, anxious discussion of what Dacre might be planning in retaliation for their attack. Foulberry’s face had grown more purple since last they met, though from strain or drink, Crozier could not tell. Y et, though the Warden General now knew Foulberry was his adversary, as were so many others, his lordship was remarkably sanguine. Since writing to Crozier with the bad news, he appeared to have regained his courage.

‘My men are well armed,’ he said, ‘and this castle is a fortress. But in any case, it is my belief that the baron will not be so unsubtle as to launch war against his denouncers. After all, the court is now watching him, even though it has cleared his name.’

‘For the time being,’ Isabella chipped in.

Her husband nodded. ‘Indeed. Dacre would be ill-advised to pick us off before the Commission has reported. We have until then to bring things to their proper conclusion, or so I trust.’

Crozier was terse, which did not go unnoticed.

‘You are fretting I believe,’ said Isabella, as she directed the servant to refill his glass.

‘Not fretting, my lady, but concerned, as we all should be, and keen to bring this business to its end.’ He tipped his glass in her direction, trying to lighten his tone. ‘But when his lordship and I have got the letters we need from Albany, things should move fast.’

‘Ah,’ said Foulberry, swallowing the last of his clams, and wiping his lips with a cloth, ‘you are under a misapprehension. I am afraid I cannot accompany you to France as I had hoped.’

Crozier looked at him, and Foulberry’s colour deepened. He dug into his belt, and produced a letter from the Duke of Norfolk, who required his presence at a northern council in York.

‘A last-minute affair,’ said Foulberry, uncomfortable under Crozier’s eye. ‘Unavoidable, I regret. In the present circumstances, with Dacre on the prowl, it behoves me to stay on the best of terms with Norfolk and the court. But,’ he continued, more heartily, ‘this does not impede your journey. You shall sail with Henryson at first tide, and be at Cherbourg some time the next day. It is only a few miles from port. There you can present a note from Isabella at the stables, and be assured of thoroughbreds for the Paris road. Also of hospitality at her family’s coaching inn, which is one of the best appointed in the district.’

Isabella gave a girlish smile. ‘The Villenuit family own the finest stables in Normandy, gentlemen. The inn is comfortable too. I only wish I could go with you. I spent happy hours there as a child, when my nursemaids were not watching. The smell of those creatures, their glossy flanks—’ There was a catch in her voice. ‘Oh, how I miss the freedom to ride I once had. Sometimes this place is like a prison.’

Lord Foulberry placed his hand over hers. ‘These days, none of us has the liberty we once enjoyed, my love. That is a sad truth of our times, is it not, gentlemen?’

They raised their glasses in a silent toast, each thinking of what they most desired. Isabella’s eyes found Crozier’s, and she looked away, blushing.

Sobered by the thought of everything they stood to lose, the party broke up early. The next morning, long before dawn, Foulberry was in the courtyard, clutching a cloak over his nightshirt, to bid goodbye to his guests. There was no sign of his wife.

He handed a letter to Crozier, for the head ostler at Cherbourg. ‘That should secure you good horses at all posting inns, and in both directions.’ Along with the letter was a fat pouch of French coins. He waved away Crozier’s protest. ‘They will speed your journey, and that’s what matters, sir. The French do not trust our money.’

Crozier leaned down from the saddle to shake his hand. ‘I am grateful,’ he said, before nudging his horse into a trot behind the servant who was to take them to the boat.

Henryson was bow-legged and stout, a human echo of his deep-bellied boat, the
River Pearl
’s elegant name more than a little misleading. Bobbing by the wharf in Foulberry’s lonely creek, the squat ship sat low in the water, laden with a cargo of coal which, if anyone asked, was to be offloaded in Brest.

‘Your quarters are cramped and basic, sirs,’ he said as they crossed the plank. ‘I doubt ye’ll be comfortable. And if the wind stays sluggish in this quarter, it will be a slow passage. We cast off at high tide. Ye can stay above board till then. After that, I’d prefer ye remain below deck, out of our way.’

They obeyed his orders, and he was correct on all points. By the time the borderers disembarked in France three days later, they were so coated in coal dust a stray spark would have turned them into torches, and their legs were jack-knifed like a grasshopper’s.

Paying a farmer at the dockside to let them sit on his dray among his turnips until he reached Cherbourg, they breathed the country air with relief, and felt their legs regain their strength. By the time they reached the Villenuit coaching inn they were ready to ride, and took off in a swirl of dust higher than any wave they had seen since they set sail.

Crozier and Benoit had left at first light, and the keep was in Tom’s charge. Unable to work for thinking of her husband, Louise whistled the wolf to her heels and set off for the woods, heading down the valley. The day was mild but a gale was gathering, and her cloak flapped around her. Overhead the trees swayed, loud as breaking waves. The wolf’s thickening winter coat riffled in the wind, rising around his neck like a ruff.

Down near the stream, where the hare had been set free, Louise sat on a fallen oak and stared at the sparkling water. Masked by the sound of the lashing trees, Antoine’s appearance took her by surprise, and she pressed a hand to her heart.

Smiling, he apologised, and sat beside her, showing her the plants he had gathered that morning. Louise feigned interest, but she wished to be alone, and her replies were clipped. Antoine, perhaps sensing her mood, also fell quiet. For a few minutes they both stared ahead, but just as she thought he was about to leave he took her hand gently in his, and began to speak. Jumping to her feet she pulled away, her cheeks flushed with anger. ‘What do you think you are doing?’

Antoine too was on his feet, his blush matching hers. ‘It was . . . I only meant . . . I believed that . . .’ Under her furious gaze, he could not get the words out.

Louise pulled her cloak around her. ‘How dare you?’ she said, more quietly. ‘If my husband were here . . .’

The Frenchman got down on one knee among the litter of leaves, and bowed. ‘Madame,’ he said, ‘you misunderstand. It was an act of friendship. Nothing more. I would never insult you, or your husband, who have been so kind to me. Indeed,’ he added, raising his head, ‘i did it because I knew you were thinking of Crozier.’

‘Get up, please,’ said Louise, turning away. ‘You look ridiculous.’

Antoine rose, brushing down his britches with a lop-sided smile. ‘Fortunately, that has never worried me.’

Louise looked at him, frowning. ‘I don’t understand. What has this to do with Adam?’

‘You have been sad about your marriage, I think, for a long time. I have observed you, and him. You are both of you unsettled, and perturbed. Perhaps I can help.’

Louise’s eyes narrowed. ‘Be very careful.’

His composure regained, the Frenchman was undaunted by her tone. He put out a hand, and touched her arm. ‘Come, sit down. I will explain.’

‘I will stand, thank you,’ she replied, while he took his seat.

‘As you wish.’ Not looking at her, he dug into his bag, and pulled out a pinkish sprig of flowers, earth still clinging to their roots. ‘Mallow,’ he said. Another followed, with tiny leaves and a sprinkling of small blue flowers. ‘This one, as you will know, is speedwell.’ The last he produced was a stem of juicy catnip leaves. He laid them on the tree, and looked up. ‘All can cure the barren, madame, given time. Used well they can bring new life, where nothing before would grow.’

Louise put a hand to her throat. She could not speak. This was impertinence beyond anything she had ever met. She had spoken to no one but her husband about their longing for another child, and even then they had said little, the subject too sore.

Antoine had broken off a catnip leaf, and was holding it out to her. ‘Taste it,’ he said. ‘It is not bitter. If nothing else, it is an excellent aid to sleep, and all of us need help with that in these difficult times.’

Louise put it to her tongue, and felt its peppery rasp. Still unsure, she took a step towards the stream. ‘How would it work?’ she asked, over her shoulder.

Antoine spoke to her back. ‘An infusion, twice a day, for several weeks.’

‘My husband will be gone for some time,’ she said, twisting her hands at discussing something like this. ‘Two weeks, a month, maybe more.’

‘Once it has set things right, time makes no difference. I do not promise it will change anything,’ he said, ‘but I have seen it work before, on those older and less healthy than you. Sometimes the problem is in the womb, and sometimes in the mind. In each case, these plants can help.’

Louise took a long breath, and pulled her cloak close. After a pause she spoke. ‘You have been a good friend to our family. I will trust you, and do as you suggest, but you must speak of this to no one. Adam and I have suffered enough without raising anyone else’s hopes, let alone our own.’

Antoine looked grave. ‘One day I will have to leave. It would make some atonement for the terrible danger I brought your family into if, by the time I go, there is good news.’

The wind rushed hard at the treetops, and the woods moved around them, wild as the sea. Louise put out her hand, and after a brief hesitation Antoine took it, and bowed his head. ‘I am in your service,’ he said.

They made their way slowly back to the keep, neither speaking. Louise did not know what to think, or hope. Some would say she had lost her wits, to put herself in the care of a heretic. She had heard him, reciting his bible, in the harsh language she did not know. He might say he had changed his ways and gone back to the true faith, but she doubted that was the case. And yet, she thought him a good man. He was a healer, not a preacher. There was a gentleness about him that she had never seen in anyone before. He seemed to look beyond people, as if they were but a speck in his eye that blotted them from his sight, but he was unfailingly sweet, and kind, almost childlike in his eagerness to help, or cure, or care. How he would survive when he left the keep, she did not like to imagine. She quickened her step. That was a problem for another day.