Dacre's War (36 page)

Now, with news of his treason, Wolsey's scruples faded. If Dacre bleated a word of discontent at his treatment, the unfair bias of the Commission and its conclusions, Wolsey would let him know that his life hung on a thread. But that was a conversation for the cells, not the courtroom.

Calling for his bearskin cloak, the cardinal left Westminster by boat for Greenwich Palace where the king was in residence for this most tedious month of the year.

Henry received him in his private rooms, not only glad of distraction, but sensing victory. He nodded at intervals as Wolsey explained the Commission's findings, but his attention was as much on the cardinal's face as on his words.

‘You seem troubled, your eminence,' he said at last, when Wolsey's speech had ended. The cardinal sighed.

‘I do not deny it, your highness. It grieves me to find such a high-standing and respected servant of the court capable of such grave misdemeanours.'

‘You persist in thinking him innocent?' Henry sounded surprised. ‘The last time we spoke, you seemed to have reached our own view, that he was lying through his teeth.'

‘I have not changed in that opinion, your highness, but the obligation to charge him lies heavy upon my conscience.' He took a deep breath, and looked the king in the eye. ‘It will be like arraigning a friend. He and I have been long associates. We are not close, nor are we fond, but until lately we have enjoyed mutual respect.'

Henry scoffed, and tickled the head of the hound that sat at his side. ‘Qualms are not what we expect of our Lord Chancellor. Rather, we would have him stalwart, resolute, and stout-hearted in defence of our realm.'

Wolsey blanched. He had gone too far. Twisting his hands in his lap, he forced a smile onto his face. ‘Your highness, you misunderstand me. Mine is the ambivalence of a priest, all too aware of the flaws in the common man's heart, his own included.' He uttered a laugh, though feared it sounded more like a yelp. Recognising a fellow sound, the hound's tail began to brush the flagstones. Henry stroked its back, his hand knuckled with gold.

The cardinal pressed on. ‘I fear for the baron's immortal soul, and would wish, once he has been charged, to act as his confessor. With your permission, of course.'

Henry's eyes were unblinking as he held Wolsey's glance. He noted the tremble at the edge of the Lord Chancellor's mouth, the fidgeting fingers that would not be still. ‘We will have him imprisoned,' he said at last, ‘and let him know our severe displeasure. Command him in my name to appear in the Star Chamber the first session of next month.' The king's hand gripped the hound's neck, and it whimpered. ‘We might attend his arraignment ourselves, your eminence, and see how you handle your fears.'

So it was that some days later, Blackbird placed another letter in Dacre's hand. Harbottle lay in its frozen hollow, buttressed in snow, and the courier's cloak was crusted with hoar as he handed over the missive. The baron broke the royal seal, read its summons, and tossed it onto the fire. ‘Back we go,' he said to Blackbird, ‘as soon as the roads are clear.'

That night, and from then until he departed, the devils returned to Dacre's dreams.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

February 1525

In an outhouse near the stables, the Frenchman stood hunched over a deep copper pot, stirring a steaming brew. Snow and ice clung to the keep, and Antoine's breath clouded the air, but he worked on, whistling. From the rafters overhead hung rows of herbs and plants, neatly tied. A shelf near the fire held rows of jars with labels round their necks. This was his dispensary, where the villagers came for help, but at this hour of the evening, when all was quiet, Antoine had the place to himself.

Hidden behind the outhouse, Barton shivered. The Frenchman worked by firelight, and the hole the sailor had poked in the wall the night before offered only a keyhole view. Even so, what the man was doing was obvious enough. Barton stifled a cough. Lately his chest had been hot and sore, and he had been allowed back from the woods to lie in the warmth of the men's quarters until he was well. Stifling his spluttering by holding a rag to his mouth, he worried the hole with a finger, and pressed his cheek once more to the wall.

Antoine worked on, oblivious of the bloodshot eye upon him. The potion was simmering nicely. He disappeared from Barton's sight, but soon returned with a small black bottle in his hand. Pushing back his hood, he stood by the pot, eyes closed, his right hand raised. The hairs on Barton's neck prickled as the Frenchman began to intone. The words were low and indistinct, but their meaning was clear. The man was casting a spell.

Antoine began to sway, as if transported by his incantation. His voice rose and fell, the sound more like harsh music than ordinary speech. When at last he fell silent he opened his eyes and blinked, as if surprised to find himself still in the shed. The sailor watched him add a few drops from the black bottle to the pot before lifting it off the fire and ladling the steaming, dark mixture into jars.

Barton had seen enough. He crept off across the courtyard and back to the keep. Despite his fever, he felt cold. Could it be that this man was a sorcerer, and using his powers to help Crozier? Fearful that the Frenchman might discover that he had been spying, and send his evil spirits after him, he lay trembling under his blanket, pressing his crucifix to his lips. The next day he returned to the woods. When the foreman, hearing his cough, tried to send him back, he begged to be allowed to stay. Suspicious, though of what he could not say, the woodcutter agreed. A look crossed Barton's face that was as close to gratitude as it ever came. Shaking his head, the woodsman picked up his axe, and told Barton to join his old gang.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

The cell door scraped shut, a key turned, and the bolts were thrown, one, two, three. As the iron bars slid home and he was again confined, Dacre raised his head, like one determined not to be bowed. His hands were fists, his eyes tight shut, yet it was not the prison he feared but his own mind, which had sprung a trap more secure than any cell.

That morning he had been granted a visit from the cardinal. Dacre had been in the Fleet for just a few days, but the prospect of walking farther than three feet before meeting a wall, of seeing something beyond the filthied stone of his cage, made this encounter welcome, whatever its outcome. His keys rattling on his belt like a courtesan's bracelets, the gaoler had led him up the stairs to a room containing a single stool. The cardinal occupied it. When Dacre came in, Wolsey remained as he was, knees spread, his scarlet lap so bright against the Fleet's unlit murk that the baron blinked. As they looked at each other, the gaoler posted himself at the door, staring ahead with the expression of one who is sightless and deaf.

‘It will do you no good,' Wolsey began, ‘pestering the court like this.' He sounded peevish. ‘The king wants you to know his wrath. He is exceedingly angry.'

The baron began to speak, but Wolsey waved a hand to silence him. ‘I have worked hard, Dacre, protecting you from his displeasure. I – like Norfolk – have for many years been your bulwark, against the fate you should have suffered long ago. Neither of us would have believed you guilty of the charges brought against you last week.'

‘And yet I confessed them all.' Dacre's voice was hard.

The cardinal whinnied. ‘It was astounding! Much as I have seen in that chamber in my time, I have never been so surprised. The courtroom gasped, as did I.'

‘I heard.'

Wolsey looked at him for an explanation, but the baron shrugged. ‘I have had enough. Enough of being the butt of suspicion. Enough of spending my own money in the king's service, without his respect or his thanks. Enough, eventually, of everything. I begged to be released, but this is my reward: humiliation, stripped of my post, left to rot in this place with debtors and frauds, perhaps until I die. Which I doubt in this cold will be far off.'

‘Yet last year you defended yourself superlatively. I believed every word.'

‘And every word was true. Or close to the truth. But the Commission ye so cleverly devised undid all that good work, as it was meant to do. So what, I reasoned, was the point of arguing? I have not always been scrupulous in my affairs. Few men in my position could afford to be. But what would ye all have?' His voice rose. ‘How in God's name can the border be kept tidy and safe, neat and bonny, when the place is at war with itself ? Find me an answer, if ye will, and I'll maybe rest easier in here.'

‘Calm yourself,' said the cardinal. ‘You are growing heated, and there is no need. Henry does respect you, in his fashion. Otherwise, you would be awaiting execution. He wishes only to make you see sense, to atone for your misdeeds. The biggest of which' – he lowered his voice – ‘is to have believed yourself more powerful than he. Setting yourself up as monarch of the north, that is your most serious crime.' He spread his hands, as if the matter had nothing to do with him. ‘One day, trust me, you will get home.'

A silence fell, in which Dacre bent to peer out of the tiny window, which looked onto a dank brick wall. The cardinal cast him a sidelong glance. ‘So having confessed, you do not question your sentence or wish to lodge a complaint? I had thought that the reason why you called me here.'

‘I asked to see ye to be allowed more candles, and some paper and ink, that was all. But never ye fear,' Dacre replied, in a voice that was far from reassuring. ‘I can read the runes. I know nothing I say will change my fate. But you, I can tell, are nervous. My indictment is proving troublesome for ye, though in what way I am unable to imagine. Perhaps I will find out.' His eyes bored into the cardinal, who turned his face away. ‘Indeed, I am pretty sure,' he continued softly, ‘that I
can
find out.'

Wolsey stood, brushing out his skirts. ‘You are growing fanciful, my lord. I am not nervous, merely concerned for your welfare. But our business today is finished. I shall see that you are allowed the attentions of your manservant while you are here, and have access to fresh air once a week. That should surely ease your discomfort. Candles will be more difficult to secure, and paper is allowed only on condition of excellent behaviour, and after a long time of confinement. Yours having only just begun, I cannot oblige you there.'

Dacre did not reply, but drew himself up, his bulk filling the room, as did his mood.

‘Very well then,' said Wolsey, when he remained silent, and signalled the gaoler to open the door.

Back in his cell, when the turnkey's steps had faded, Dacre's shoulders drooped. There would be no swift end to this sentence, that much he could tell. He stood, willing the pounding in his head to ease, the sweat on his shirt back to dry. When the tongs in his chest let go his heart and he could breathe rather than rasp, he lowered himself onto the stool by his pallet with an elderly groan.

His hand rubbed his knee, his gaze fixed on the stone wall, though he did not see the obscene drawings, nor the bloodstains where prisoners had picked at the mortar, or walloped their heads. Instead, he was far from here, crossing the Cumberland moors, and catching the first sight of Naworth, its torches beckoning him off the hills at dusk. He was beguiled for a minute into forgetting where he was, but the image began to fade. He stretched out a hand to call it back, but it was gone, in its place the wall and a window so narrow the noonday sun barely reached the cell, washing its walls a watery grey. Lowering his head he clenched his hands, determined to hold his nerve. Wolsey and Henry would not destroy him. He had fought and beaten men more dangerous and sly. Were he not locked up, it would be they who were frightened, not he.

He snorted, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He'd smelled Wolsey's fear, that he had. There was something the cardinal did not want Henry to know. Something to do with him, perhaps.

Worrying at that thought got him through the night, with no unwanted guests. In the morning he felt weak. The grate in his door slid open, and he heard voices in the passage. Then the bolts were pulled back, the key scraped, and Blackbird appeared, bearing food and ale, and a badger skin cloak so newly made it reeked still of the beast.