Dacre's War (43 page)

Wolsey rose at dawn the next morning to complete his diplomatic correspondence, hoping his assurances would dampen the rage that was beginning to gather over the continent like thickening clouds over England’s clear skies. That delicate task completed, he retired to his chamber, shutters drawn and a cold cloth on his brow. The following day, calling a ferry to the crumbling pier, he set out for Greenwich Palace. Beneath the rising sun and his velvet cloak, he sweltered, but his physical discomfort was as nothing to the lather of panic created by Dacre’s discovery.

His fear was well hidden when he found the king, knocking a ball with a mallet in the walled garden, his queen and her maids cooing and clapping as if he were leading a joust. Henry’s face glistened in the late morning sun as he acknowledged the Lord Chancellor with a wave, before continuing to tap the ball between the hoops, bowing extravagantly as his entourage applauded and cheered.

When he had chased the ball to the end of the lawn, he handed his mallet to a footman and sauntered over to Wolsey, who smiled as if he had come all this way merely to witness a scene of summer games. The cardinal bent his knee. ‘Your majesty.’

‘Walk with me,’ Henry replied. They left the walled garden by a narrow door and entered another, prettily laid with flowerbeds and box hedges, sweet with the scent of espaliered pears. Their shoes crunched on gravel. ‘So you have sent those letters?’ The cardinal affirmed that he had. ‘Very good.’ Henry wiped his damp hands on his silken britches. ‘Yet was there a problem with them that you are here to discuss?’

Wolsey looked grave. ‘No, your highness. It is an altogether less important matter that brings me here, but one I feel we should settle sooner rather than not.’

Around the path they walked, as Wolsey told him of his fear that Dacre would soon die, and that if he did so in their custody it might prove awkward.

‘So this is a mercy call?’

‘Indeed,’ the cardinal replied, steepling his hands as a reminder that his first position, his main obligation, was to his holy superior in Rome.

‘How long have we been holding him?’

‘Six months or more. The gaoler says he has suffered two fits in that time, one where they feared they had lost him.’

Henry rubbed his beard, releasing the scent of sandalwood. He did not speak as twice more they patrolled the garden. Eventually he stopped and faced the cardinal, his chest puffed out like a pigeon’s. ‘We will agree to this,’ he said, ‘but not for reasons of pity, nor because Dacre has any claim on our good nature. He lost that right when we found him guilty of corruption and collusion. Were we less lenient, he would now be dead.

‘But we will release him, for the simple reason that it seems his presence keeps the border quiet. Or less unquiet. With his return, our young Henry’s position as Warden General will be made less irksome, and I will not have to worry constantly about the state of the marches. Whereas at the moment—’ He clicked his tongue in vexation. ‘As it stands, every day seems to bring bad news from that quarter. Would that we could set our army loose on it, and knock sense into people’s heads.’

The cardinal smiled. ‘A nice thought, your majesty, but likely only to aggravate matters in the long run.’

Henry sighed. ‘You may be right. For a man of scripture and codices, you are most worldly and sage.’

Wolsey bowed.

‘So, then,’ the king continued, ‘you can tell perfidious Dacre he will be set free, but only on certain conditions.’ His eyes grew small as he counted out his terms on his fingers. ‘One: he is stripped of all office, not only as warden of the west but as Keeper of Carlisle. Two: we will fine him handsomely for his misdemeanours, in the form of a tithe, to be taken each year at Michaelmas. Three: he will repay with his own money those whose compensation at his courts remains outstanding. And four: if we hear of a single instance of retribution or malice against those who testified against him, he will be dragged back to the Fleet in chains.’

He paused, eyelashes fluttering as he searched his mind for more. ‘Ah, yes, of course.’ He smiled. ‘Please inform him he must also return to Berwick to lend his aid in the negotiations for the final settlement of peace with Scotland, under Norfolk’s command. His presence will speed matters.’

When he was sure there was nothing more to be added, the cardinal repeated the orders. Hearing the depths of the baron’s disgrace recited back to him, Henry beamed with satisfaction.

‘Come,’ he said, taking the cardinal’s sleeve, and guiding him towards the lawn. ‘Join our game, and stay for the night. Your usual room will be made ready.’

‘With pleasure,’ Wolsey replied, sounding as if he meant it.

Dacre left the Fleet on Blackbird’s arm. He barely seemed to notice when the prison doors closed behind him, and London took him in its hold. Head hanging, his feet all but dragging, he shuffled down the street. ‘We’re just round the next corner,’ Blackbird said, as if to encourage him onwards.

When the sign for his inn came into view, Dacre raised his eyes, and his step grew firmer. ‘What sort of midden is this ye’ve been living in?’ he asked.

‘The kind I could afford,’ the butler replied. ‘I have had a room set aside for you, for as long as you like. Perfectly clean, it is.’

‘One night only,’ Dacre growled, gripping his arm. ‘Soon as I’m on the road north, I’ll be back to my old self.’

It took longer than that, but as they plodded out of London on a pair of wind-broken old horses, some colour returned to the baron’s cheeks. He let the reins lie slack, and raised his face to the sun, tears running off his chin. Whether they were of weakness, relief, or misery at what he had endured, Blackbird could not tell. Nor, perhaps, could his master, who did not wipe them away, but let them flow unchecked. The butler watched him anxiously, keeping their pace as slow as if they were in a state procession. That Dacre did not complain at the dolorous speed was itself disturbing. It almost seemed as if he noticed nothing except what was in his head. Sleeping where Blackbird told him, eating a little of what was placed before him, saying barely a word except to mutter to himself, he was like a man in a trance, under a spell that refused to loosen its hold.

Not until they reached the high west country did his strength begin to return. His appetite grew with the fresher September air and the scent of open hills. His seat in the saddle straightened and by the time they reached Cumberland he was riding as he always had, hand steady, grip firm, urging his horse on at a soldier’s clip. As the miles were eaten up, he brightened at the sight of woodland and wide skies, and the sound of the birdsong he had so badly missed.

A day or two later, he rediscovered his voice, and with his new-found words the last lingering touch of the Fleet was sloughed off. ‘By God, Blackbird,’ he said one night, as they sat in a tavern over their beer, ‘I thought that cell would be my crypt. They had forgotten about me, hadn’t they?’ His butler’s look was blank, though in his heart he agreed. ‘I could have mouldered there till I was bones for all they cared. Wolsey pretended the king was considering my release, but that was a lie. Fear made him charm the king into changing his mind, of that I have no doubt. But it was you, my good man, who saved my life, you and your bloodhound search.’

The baron shook his head as he sipped his drink. ‘Never expected to be set loose, but here I am, feeling alive for the first time in months, and raring to get back to Naworth and set my lands in order. By God, I will make the most of it now. No more politicking. No more bargaining. Just simple good living, in God’s own good country.’

Blackbird smiled, the sight of his master’s pleasure as enjoyable as feeling it himself.

‘Never thought I’d say it,’ Dacre continued, ‘but that priest made me think. I’m no candidate for a saint – it’s far too late for that – but I know now where my allegiance lies, and where honour’s due. Old dog that I am, I can still give that much. And I’ll tell you this for nothing.’ He lowered his voice, the tankard trembling in his hand. ‘I’ll never again bend my knee to our king, not if I’m at swordpoint. God willing I will not set eyes on him or the pox-faced Wolsey this side of the pearly gates.’

He raised his tankard, Blackbird lifted his, and they swallowed down the last of their pint, their cheap beer tasting, that night, as sweet as nectar.

As they neared Naworth the following day, the baron’s tears returned. Elms hung over the road, dripping in the rain, and the baron’s wet face went unnoticed as they trotted the last few miles through a gusty squall. Head down against the weather, Dacre breathed deep, the scent of wet earth and harvested fields setting his pulse kicking like a young man’s.

At the castle gates, the guardsmen sounded their horns and the place burst open, servants hurrying to usher them home. Joan stood at the doors, almost hopping with excitement. Her tears matched her father’s as she clung to him, and neither had the power to speak.

‘Welcome home, brother,’ said Sir Christopher, stepping forward when it seemed their embrace would last forever. Sir Philip was at his shoulder, bowing low.

Dacre clasped Christopher’s arm, and nodded, but his mouth was slack, and his hand shaking. Christopher slapped an arm round his back and, exchanging a look with Philip, hurried him into the hall. ‘We can talk over dinner,’ he said. ‘Plenty of time for that. But first you must rest.’

Blackbird led the baron to his room and settled his master, who was already dozing, fully clothed, before he had unpacked his bag. The room was airless and stale, warmed by a roaring fire, and Blackbird opened the window. A Cumberland draught tickled the canopy over the baron’s bed, and he thought he saw a smile on Dacre’s lips as the air reached him, and he turned on his side, sinking into a gentle, dreamless sleep.

His brothers stationed themselves at Naworth for the autumn. Nothing was said, but it was understood that they would stay until the baron had fully regained his health. Joan fussed over her father, but Christopher and Philip were equally solicitous. Were he a less impatient man, Dacre would have smiled to see their mothering. Instead, he growled and barked and challenged them to cosset him, if they dared. That office was granted only to Joan and to Blackbird, and even the butler was occasionally nipped on the ankle as he went about this risky business.

The baron was, however, recovering. His gait was still that of a man who had been confined so long that his back was stooped like a willow, but his figure was gaining strength, his face once more ruddy, and his step full of vigour. ‘You are stronger, even now, than most men the age of your sons,’ Joan said one evening, as they sat alone in the hall by the fireside.

‘We come from a good line,’ Dacre replied, leaving his goblet half drunk. Wine did not agree with him so well now, nor did he need it to fall into sleep. The devils had taken flight, and for that alone he ought to be grateful for his days in the Fleet. He missed the dockside priest, but the wisdom he had offered had been committed to memory, never to be forgotten. Back at Naworth, Dacre summoned the local priest for a twice-weekly mass, to the surprise of all at the castle. In no other regard did he appear devout, but his daughter could not miss the cross he wore round his neck and kissed before he headed up the stairs to bed.

‘Have we always been noble?’ Joan asked. ‘Doesn’t each family start from humble beginnings? Were we not once commoners, peasants, or worse?’

Dacre surprised her by laughing. ‘Worse we’ve been, that’s for sure. And peasants too. Of course. Name the Englishman whose ancestors did not at one time doff their caps and pull a plough. That’s why our stock is so strong. There has not been time for us to weaken the blood with the effete or sickly rich. But, my girl,’ he said, suddenly serious, ‘since you are so interested in the family, it is time to talk of you. I have promised Mabel that come Candlemas you will stay with her, and learn the ways of court. It is my dearest wish that you be happily and safely settled before next year is out.’

Joan looked at him, pale even in the firelight, her eyes filling with tears.

Her father frowned. ‘What makes you cry? Do you not wish to be married, and have your own house, and children? You know you cannot stay forever by my side, living more like a boy than a maid.’

Joan attempted a smile. ‘It is that I dislike hearing you talk this way. It sounds as if you are settling all your affairs before leaving this life. I cannot bear that thought.’

Dacre tutted. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I am not planning to die before my time. But I would be foolish if I did not secure your future while I can, so I would. If I were many years younger and in the best of health I would still think ye must soon find a husband. You are no longer a child but a young woman, and now that our country is at peace, with France as well as Scotland, the court will be in a mood for matches. How long such tranquillity will continue, God only knows. With Henry at the helm, I doubt it will last long.’

Joan wiped her cheeks, and bent to stroke the hound at her feet. ‘I am quite willing and ready to marry,’ she said, then gave a sob, and fled the room. Dacre looked after her, concern hardening his face. The girl’s volatility was all his fault, for spoiling her and letting her have her own way, an indulgence her sisters had never enjoyed – and how settled and happy they both now were. After long contemplation of the fire, he decided he would send her to Mabel before Christmas, rather than after.

The next morning he informed her of his decision. Joan turned linen white and sat suddenly, as if she had been chopped behind the knees. Losing patience, Dacre grew angry, berating her for being selfish, childish and foolish. She nodded, head lowered, the colour slowly returning to her cheeks. By the time he had finished, her face was flushed. ‘I am sorry for being such a disappointment to you,’ she whispered. ‘I will marry, I assure you. And I will rejoice to do so. Just do not shout at me, I beg.’ And again she ran from the room, weeping into her hands.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

October 1525

Benoit rode fast up the track to the keep, urging his horse on. The village was slowly being rebuilt, and by the end of each day he and his assistants were exhausted. At dusk he returned to the keep sore-armed and coated in sawdust. Normally he plodded home, letting the aches settle, and planning the next day’s work as he went. Today, though, he was in a hurry. His saddlebag clattered with tools, and as his horse cantered the pack dug into its flanks like a goad. Snorting, it quickened to a gallop, nearly throwing the carpenter off. ‘Whoa!’ cried Benoit, hunched over its neck, but it was too late. The keep’s walls were within sight, and so was the stable, and his mount wanted only to be rid of its burden.

Clattering into the yard, the beast came to a stamping halt. Throwing the reins to Hob, Benoit ran into the keep. Louise looked up from the table, where she sat with Old Crozier. ‘Where’s Crozier?’ Benoit panted. Disturbed by his haste, Louise began to get up. ‘Naw,’ he said, gesturing to her to stay seated. ‘It’s nothing bad. Just some news he ought to hear.’

‘He is up the hill,’ said Old Crozier. ‘You’ll find him at the northern watchtower.’

‘What sort of news?’ asked Louise, sinking heavily back onto the bench. Though there was more than a month before her baby was due, she was already weighed down. Seen from behind, she was the slender girl she had always been. Viewed sideways, she was a keg. ‘Another like Benoit in there?’ Ella would tease, though by now her husband was almost as lean as he had been as a youth.

‘I’ve heard news of Oliver Barton,’ said Benoit, ‘our snake of a cousin.’

Louise’s mouth tightened. Barton had brought trouble, as they had feared, and even with him gone his presence could still be felt, as if he were wishing them ill from afar – but not far enough.

Crozier’s face took on the same tense expression when he returned. As the hall filled for dinner, and the table was laid with food, he and Benoit stood by the fire. ‘It was yin o’ the pledges that saw him, or so he says,’ the carpenter said quietly. Crozier listened, head bent as if the rushes on the floor needed his attention.

With the peace with England at last arranged, the pledges on both sides of the border had been released. Those who had been held prisoner in castles and houses said goodbye to their polite keepers and their families, more as if they had been on a sociable visit than under threat of execution; those locked in gaols and towers spat their farewells, and had no gracious word for their guards. In the more remote gaols, however, where rules had been relaxed, the pledges had been allowed to roam by day, returning to be incarcerated at night, like sheep to the pen before dark. At such prisons, there were handshakes at parting, and promises of enduring goodwill.

Whatever the conditions in which they had been kept that summer, all the pledges made their way home unscathed, the ties between them and the enemy strangely strengthened by their ordeal. It was one such, held in the Bishop of Carlisle’s outhouse, who brought news of Barton.

‘Jardine remembered him well,’ Benoit told Crozier. The young lord from Kelso, whose father Samuel was one of Crozier’s allies, was an occasional visitor at the keep. Exchanged for one of the Percy heirs, he had been allowed his liberty once a week, if accompanied by a brace of guards. From his prison windows he had seen Barton among Dacre’s soldiers in the bishop’s yard. On one of his outings into the town, he swore he had seen the sailor leaving a tavern in the high street. The man was half blind with drink, but when Jardine shouted his name he had looked round before scuttling into the next tavern, like a rat with a terrier on its tail.

‘Jardine wis on his way here to tell you himsel,’ said Benoit. ‘He didnae ken Barton had left us, but he kent fine what had happened to the village. A’body across the marches had heard. It wis his belief that Barton must’ve been involved in that.’

‘Mine too,’ said Crozier. ‘I always suspected it. Now it’s clear the man was Dacre’s agent, sent here as a spy. And not just a tale-teller. He was plotting with Dacre to bring us down.’ He looked at Benoit with an air of lassitude that meant he was about to act. ‘How long ago was this sighting?’

‘A couple of weeks, just afore Jardine’s release. They also say he has been making himsel at hame at Naworth while Dacre’s been gone. A bit too cosy wi the baron’s daughter for some folks’s comfort, by all accounts.’

A glimmer of hate crossed the borderer’s face. ‘I will find the felon, and I will kill him. It can’t undo what happened to the village, but we will be avenged. And we’ll all be safer for it.’

‘I’ll come with ye,’ said Benoit, putting a hand to his sword.

Crozier shook his head. ‘No. I must go alone. The keep will be in your and Tom’s care. As will Louise. Her time is not yet near, but I must not have her unprotected.’

Benoit nodded. ‘We’ll take guid care of her, I swear.’

From the table, Louise had watched their conversation. ‘What is it?’ she asked as Crozier led her aside.

As he explained what he intended to do, she grew distressed, but Adam’s decision had been made, and Louise knew she could not – perhaps should not – try to change his mind.

‘But what if the baby arrives . . .’ she asked pitifully.

‘Lou, you still have some time to go, and I will not be away long. Two weeks, possibly less. If I cannot find him in that time, I will return, I promise. But I need to do this. Who knows how else he will try to destroy us if I don’t deal with him now? He may soon leave the country, and my chance of finding him will be gone.’

‘And what if . . .’

‘What?’ Crozier almost smiled. ‘What if he kills me? It’s not likely, is it?’ He took her hands in his. ‘Come, love. You have nothing to fear. I will be back, and the baby will be born safely after that. And with Barton dead, the world will be a little less dangerous.’

She looked at him, and eventually she sighed. ‘I know you have to do this. But I am not as brave as I used to be. There’s too much to lose. If anything happened to you . . .’

‘It won’t.’

‘You can’t promise me that,’ she said. ‘Nobody can know what will happen.’

‘No,’ he replied, taking her into his arms, ‘but we both know it is probably true. And that has to be good enough.’

She held him tight, her cheek pressed against his chest, where his heart beat slow and strong. Unheard, the echoing beat that lay between them squeezed quick and quiet.