Dacre's War (35 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

The men ought to have been back long before now, and Louise and Ella were anxious. Tom, however, was untroubled. ‘They must have met with some delay on the road to Paris,’ he said, whistling his way about his business as he always did. They nodded, but remained as worried as before.

When another week had passed, Louise took Hob aside. ‘You and I are going to the Solway port, to find out what has happened,’ she told him. ‘Have the horses ready before light.’

He would have protested, knowing the risks such a journey involved, but the thought of Crozier’s anger if he led his wife into possible danger was as nothing to the sight of her thin, drawn face. ‘Will do,’ he replied.

The next morning they set out, telling none but Ella where they were going. The storms of the past month had eased, leaving only a scudding wind to keep them company, but the tracks were thick with mud and loosened stones, and uprooted trees marked the passage of the gales as clearly as flags.

Now the war was almost at an end, crossing the border was less perilous. The greater danger was the miles they must ride through the Elliots’ and Armstrongs’ lands in Liddesdale, which lay between them and the firth. Skirting the dale on its westward edge, they rode fast, stopping only to rest the horses. But it was as if the place had been emptied, its people blown away. They met no one on those lonely roads, and when on their second day they slipped across the border, Louise threw back her hood and laughed. It was years since she had ridden this far, and though it was fear that propelled her, the thrill of the ride set her pulse racing, and she felt her anxiety lift.

Reaching Rockcliffe, they rode a few miles farther to where a sandy track led to Foulberry’s private harbour. Coming off the clifftop, where the breeze snatched their breath, they reached the sheltered cove where the deep stone haven was built. A pair of fishermen were on the harbourside, caulking a boat. Beyond the walls, a choppy sea moved like an army of steel bonnets, flashing in the noonday sun. Shielding his eyes, Hob asked for Foulberry’s skipper, and was told he had not yet returned. The younger of the fishermen squinted at him. ‘How’s it your business, lad, where he is or isn’t?’

‘I’ll tell you, one day,’ Hob replied. ‘For now, is there somewhere we can stay, until the boat comes in?’

A long look passed between them, and the older man shrugged. ‘My cousin runs a small place, no far from here, halfway up the hill. Not grand, but the rooms are cheap. You’d be welcome enough there, so long as it’s not for long. Scots are bad for business, he says.’

The tavern was built end-on to the sea, which surged onto the shingle beach below its hillside berth, as if to eat the cliff away and watch the inn collapse. It would soon crumble without any such help, Louise thought. The place was grimy, cold and damp, and the landlord looked her over as if she were a pie, hot and tasty from the oven. Mean as it was, it had one thing in its favour: from its door, and their upstairs window, they could see the harbour mouth. And so they set up watch.

The days passed as if time had stopped. Louise dared not think what she would do if the boat arrived without Crozier, or news of him. Playing chess with Hob at the taproom window, or prowling the cove on foot, she could not allow herself to contemplate what might have happened to keep him in France.

As each day faded without the boat’s return, darkness brought a strange comfort. The lamp at the harbour entrance burned like a beacon, keeping her company as the night drew on with no sign of life but a passing gull’s cry, or the bark of the harbour dogs. A rowing boat’s lantern would raise her hopes, soon to fade as its size was revealed. But at last, one morning, as dawn drew back the dark, a light could be seen far out at sea, bright as the morning star. Hob was on watch, and he shook Louise awake. Soon they were at the harbourside, hearts hammering as the ship bore steadily towards the cove. Only lobstermen were awake at this hour. They grunted a greeting as they jumped into their boats and rowed off down the coast, to empty their creels while the creatures and their claws were still half asleep.

Light had broken when at last the
River Pearl
slipped into harbour. Ropes were flung onto the stanchion, and a sailor jumped ashore as soon as the quayside was close to wrap them tight.

Louise clutched Hob’s arm. They stood far back, under the cliffs, watching the plank being lowered. A sailor ran onto the quay, a crate across his shoulders. Then came another young fellow, stooped and coughing under a metal trunk that he carried like a lumberman’s sack. He staggered, unsteady on the quivering plank, and dropped his load on the stone quay before returning for another, smaller trunk, which he again deposited on the quay. That done, he went back once more, and this time reappeared holding the hand of a small figure in a dark cloak who tiptoed over the water.

Louise put a hand over her eyes, to see more clearly. A cry escaped her as she recognised Benoit disembarking, followed by Crozier. ‘Thank God,’ she breathed, turning to see Hob’s reaction, but he kept his eyes on the boat.

‘Who’s that?’ he asked, and Louise watched in dismay as a lady in red boots and a fur-trimmed cape reached for Crozier’s hand. There could be no doubt who she was.

Louise’s legs felt weak, and her head was light, as though she might faint. ‘We must go,’ she said. ‘I cannot watch this.’

‘Wait,’ said Hob, in a voice she did not recognise. He held her arm tight.

Only the skipper was still on board, moving about on the deck. He raised a hand to the borderers, who saluted him in reply. His passengers made their way slowly down the quay, Lady Foulberry’s maid and servant shouldering her trunks, Crozier with a hand on Isabella’s elbow. As they approached the place where Louise and Hob were standing, her ladyship’s face came into view. She was scowling, her frown dusted with soot. Her servants’ faces were almost as grey, and their cloaks were filthied with coal from two days in the grimy quarters below deck. The borderers, meanwhile, were clean enough, having stayed above board, where the waves and mist had doused them.

The menace in Crozier’s face made him look like a stranger. By now he had dropped his hold on Isabella, and she rubbed her arm angrily. She had begun berating him, her words carried away on the breeze, when she caught sight of Louise. Arrested mid-sentence, she came to a halt. ‘What have we here?’ she tittered. ‘Your little wifie come to see what you’ve been up to?’

She moved towards Louise and put a hand on her cheek. ‘I pity you, my dear,’ she said, ‘with a man as gutless as that. No wonder you have no children.’

Louise turned crimson, but the woman passed on, her servants trailing in her wake. They had a long climb up to the road and the coaching inn where the castle’s mules awaited.

Crozier looked at his wife. ‘You have seen for yourself,’ he said. ‘You cannot doubt me now?’

‘Aye,’ said Benoit. ‘The besom got something of a shock when Crozier told her what was what, back in that miserable inn.’ He shook his head. ‘But I reckon the skipper will lose his job for letting you lock her below deck.’

‘He had no choice,’ Crozier replied, ‘with two swords pointed at him.’

‘Aye, but the way he grinned as you tied up the latch . . .’

Crozier had hoped to use Foulberry’s seal when he sent the letters from Dacre and Margaret Tudor to the English court, but Isabella’s humiliation had severed that connection. Even had she not told her husband what had happened – though Crozier suspected that theirs was a marriage where the seduction of others was known to both – he dared not waste the time, or risk the danger, of returning to Foulberry’s castle. Instead, he wrapped up two of the letters, one from the dowager queen, professing her love, the other from Dacre begging their correspondence be destroyed, and set out along the border to Berwick Castle, where the Duke of Norfolk was posted over Christmas as the tedious business of sealing a peace treaty dragged on.

It was late at night when a servant tapped at Norfolk’s door. ‘A parcel, your grace, left on the doorstep. Whoever brought it had gone before I answered his knock.’

Rising from his bed, Norfolk lit a candle, pulled a nightgown over his shirt, and opened the letters. They crackled in his arthritic hand. An accompanying note, which was not signed, promised many more from the same source. Norfolk called his guards to find the messenger, but he was long gone, as he had feared. The next morning, he despatched a courier with a note for the cardinal in London.

Quoting the most damaging lines from Margaret’s letter, Norfolk went on to inform Wolsey that, given irrefutable evidence of collusion with the enemy, Dacre’s reputation had been irreparably damaged.

I for many years have stood by him, as did my dear departed father, respecting his military guile. My regard for his firm hand overruled my scruples about his unorthodox methods, but such leniency can no longer be extended. When your Commission reports, it must find him guilty. I need say no more on this, knowing you to be most sharp in matters of expediency. Naturally, these letters need never be mentioned.

It remains only for me to tell you that I shall hold on to this most incriminating correspondence against the day when, in your role as Lord Chancellor and Master of Star Chamber, you might require me to appear before it. I need not tell you how ill the king would view such evidence, and the suspicion it casts upon you, given your repeated avowal – during the very years Dacre was dallying with the royal widow – that he was loyal to his backbone. That we discover he was sneaking behind all our backs, bringing the country into danger and disrepute, must strengthen your resolve when the Commission returns, and you are obliged do your duty.

The Duke sniffed, and rubbed warmth into his fingers before continuing with a gallows smile.

There remains also the matter of how the king would respond to the knowledge that his own sister had been so treacherous. Such behaviour sullies the Tudor name, and you are a more confident and brave man than I if you believe Henry would not be enraged at such an association. In that eventuality, heads might roll.

Understand, please, my dear and most trusted friend, that I hold on to these letters as a precaution, not as a threat. So long as I remain safe in our king’s favour, so shall you.

The Duke signed his name, then paused, dustbox in hand, and added a scribbled rider.

How these letters were found, and by whom, I do not yet know, though I have my suspicions, and will do my best to confirm them.