Dacre's War (44 page)

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

10 October 1525

To the roar of the German Sea beyond the windows, a truce was arranged with Scotland. Seated in Berwick Castle, speaking loud so all around the table could hear above the screaming wind, the emissaries of Henry VIII and James V agreed to a three-year settlement. The treaty was signed, the Scottish nobles watching tight-lipped as their erstwhile enemy set their names alongside their own. When the ink was dry, the grey-cloaked Scots stepped forward to shake the Duke of Norfolk’s and Baron Dacre’s hands.

There was a grudging few minutes of talk. ‘Peace for our countries, and less turbulent times at the palace of Holyrood too, or so we pray,’ said the Duke of Argyll, a chapped smile warming his weather-beaten face as he pulled on his gauntlets. ‘The young king’s guardians are no longer at each other’s throats. They’ve agreed to share his supervision, taking it in turns. So we can hope the squabbling between the dowager queen and her former husband will now be a thing of the past. After all, if two nations such as ours can arrange peaceful terms, surely she and Angus, who once shared a bed, can do likewise?’

Norfolk cackled. ‘There’s no worse foe than a former love, didn’t you know? I wish you and your parliament safe passage until James comes to the throne.’ He did not add that, from what he had seen of the Earl of Angus, every sea he crossed grew as turbulent as his temper. He cast a glance at the baron, who remained impassive. One would have thought the name of Margaret, and reminder of her amours, meant nothing to him.

There was more desultory conversation before the Scots cast anxious glances at the storm-blown windows, and after a flurry of unctuous bows the room emptied.

In his room in the west wing of the castle, Norfolk threw off his cloak. Dacre pulled his closer and rubbed his hands, taking a seat by a parsimonious fire. For a moment neither spoke. The past week had been gruelling, messages relayed from the courts on both sides of the border, delays, doubts and last-minute conditions whirling over the negotiators’ heads as loud and furious as the gulls above Berwick beach.

‘Well,’ said Norfolk eventually, ‘we did it.’

‘Aye,’ replied Dacre heavily. ‘It’s been a good day’s work.’ He lifted his head, and looked at the duke. ‘Of course, we shouldn’t have been at war in the first place. It was all a parade, a waste of everybody’s time, and too many lives.’

Norfolk raised his eyebrows. ‘You sound disaffected, my lord. Still smarting from your time in the Fleet?’

‘Ye might say,’ said Dacre. ‘But tired also of the tricks at court – the Scots being every bit as bad as we are, and maybe worse. But we are all cuckoos when it comes to the keys of power. All feathering our nests at the expense of others, getting rid of our rivals. Even friends are stamped on as we make our way higher, richer, nearer not to God but to the golden apple, which none of us ever reaches.’

Norfolk frowned, and turned away, to hide his consternation. ‘Are you referring to the lord the king has appointed to the wardenship of the west march? He is a good man, from what I have heard. He will do the job well enough.’

A snort from the fireside confirmed his guess.

‘And what about the keepership of Carlisle?’ Norfolk persisted. ‘I hear you have refused to hand over the keys of the city, though your post has been removed.’

Dacre’s growl was almost a purr. ‘They can come and get those keys off me, if they dare. Hah! Whelps, the lot of them. Frightened by an old man, are they? Then they don’t deserve to have them.’

His eyes met the duke’s, red-rimmed and rheumy. ‘The people of Carlisle do not want Henry Clifford. Earl of Cumberland he may be, and a decent soldier, but he knows not the first thing about the city. Whereas I know everything there is to tell about it. It is my home town, my heartland.’

Hearing the rising note in his own voice, he raised a hand to stem his mounting anger, and sighed. ‘To give back the keys would be like hanging up my boots. That’s about the size of it. It’s a question of pride. Not that I have much of that left. My name is in tatters, my fortune too.’ He stared into the sluggish flames. ‘Not that I care for that any longer. I have enough to settle on my youngest daughter to make a good marriage, and old, widowered chiel that I am, that is all that matters.’

‘Come, my man,’ said the duke. ‘What sort of talk is this? You have just helped secure peace for our kingdom. Henry will richly reward both of us. And there is much life left for you beyond being Warden General and Keeper of Carlisle. In your position, and at your age, many men would rejoice to be given their liberty at last.’

‘For many years I have been doing the work of many men, your grace, which has been my undoing.’

‘Nonsense. You are speaking like a man who needs his dinner. We will eat, and then things will look brighter. You and your servants can set out early tomorrow, and you’ll be back in your lands, with your family, before the week is out. The melancholia of your time in the Fleet has not yet left you, I can see, but it will, I promise you.’

Dacre looked unconvinced, but he summoned a livelier expression, and took the tumbler of wine the Duke held out to him. ‘To better days,’ he said, as they drank, ‘however few there may be.’

By morning the storm had washed itself out, and the eastern march lay docile, the sky a weary grey, the land resting and bruised after its whipping. Dacre and his guards made good time as they headed west, and the baron’s mood began to lift. There was truth in what Norfolk had said. Why was he fuming at his dismissal, when for years he had been begging to be released from his yoke? Aye, said another voice, that’s as may be, but ye wanted to remain as Keeper of Carlisle. But ye are not fit for that, argued the first voice. You’re a spent force, a wind-broken horse. Let a younger man do the task. Give up with good grace, and be glad of what ye have. Dacre muttered in reply, but after a few miles the argument petered out, and he allowed himself to enjoy the journey, and the beguiling sight of the trees and hills, their gold and orange fading to chestnut as winter beckoned.

Two nights later, they reached Naworth. Dacre pulled up as they crested the moorland hills and looked down across the dale, where, far in the distance, the castle nestled. Even from here its magnificence was plain. The best-fortified castle in the region, it was also the best maintained. Fields and woods and villages spread out under its shadow, a small country of which he was king. It was enough, surely?

The baron turned to his guards. ‘Ye can go ahead, back to the castle,’ he said. ‘Since I am here I will make an inspection of the eastern boundary. Tell Blackbird I will be home before nightfall.’ The guards saluted and rode off, soon out of sight in the thickets below. Alone, the baron looked to the clouds. A damp wind tossed his horse’s mane and freshened his cheek. He turned his face into its breath, and closed his eyes, the westerly’s buffeting firm and friendly as his nurse’s hand when he was a child, and she was soaping him under the pump. Opening his eyes, the baron shook off sentimental thoughts, spurred his horse into a trot, and made his way off the hills.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Little was made of Crozier’s departure. Louise and he said goodbye in their chamber, where she stayed as he saddled his horse and left. Ella found she needed Louise’s help in the kitchens, and the rest of the day passed in chores. Only at night, as she lay in their room, the bed half cold, did she think of what might happen. Crozier was the stronger, but Barton had a cunning her husband could not match, and he might not be alone when they met. Eyes wide in the peaceful night, Louise wished the wind would blow and the rain lash, to match her troubled mood. But the woods were quiet, and the skies clear, and the only sound that kept her company was a fox’s bark, far up the hill.

Many miles over the border, Crozier lay by his horse, wrapped in a blanket, sleeping lightly. As soon as day began to chase off the dark, he was on his way, he and his mare a dark arrow flying across the moors.

By nightfall he had reached Naworth. The mare needed rest, as did he, and leading her quietly through the woodland that circled the castle he found a hiding place, on a small rise, where he could settle until dawn. Leaning against a tree, hat over his eyes, he dozed. The mare cocked her fetlock, and her breathing grew slow and deep. A badger snuffled past, giving them a wide berth, but they heard nothing. Overhead, a murmur of leaves soothed them in their slumber, and when voices woke them it was already morning. Soldiers were rising, shouting orders, and scurrying across the castle courtyard to their tasks.

Creeping through the trees for a better view, Crozier saw there was no way he could get through the gates without being seen. The place was like a fortress, the entrance under guard, the walls ten feet thick. The rest of the morning he spent watching the castle going about its business, servants criss-crossing the yard, soldiers riding out in a posse, a stern-faced captain at their head. It would appear that Dacre was not at home. Nor was there any sign of Barton, though who could tell how many of Dacre’s pack were hiding out in their quarters.

With the soldiers’ departure, the place fell quiet. By late afternoon, none but house servants was around. Crozier bit his lip. Should he bluster his way into the castle, or find a way to creep in at night? Slipping off back through the woods, he made his way to the village. It was dusk when he entered the tavern, a richly appointed wooden-beamed inn whose prosperous air suggested it was patronised by those who had regular pay. Dacre’s soldiers would come here, he guessed, and the baron himself, no doubt.

At this hour the place was busy, but the landlord noted his arrival, and watched him approach the counter. ‘From over the border, are ye?’ he enquired, as Crozier asked for beer.

The borderer nodded. ‘Business will be picking up again, now we’re almost at peace again,’ he said.

The landlord looked sour. ‘Will any truce last? I doubt it.’ He put down the brimming tankard and took Crozier’s Scottish coin, holding it up against the torchlight. Crozier raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Propped against the counter, he took a long draught, then, looking around him as if hoping none would hear, leaned forward. ‘I’m looking for work,’ he said. ‘Maybe you can help.’ Continuing, though the landlord had begun to protest he could be of no assistance, he lowered his voice. ‘I think a cousin of mine is up at the castle. Name of Barton. Hank of tied hair, and a brand on his neck . . .’

‘Oh aye,’ replied the landlord, his lips compressing. ‘You’re another of that sort, are ye? You have the look right enough. Well, you might be out of luck. That’s his post there.’ He pointed to the end of the bar. ‘Used to come in every night of the week. But I haven’t seen him for a while. Unless he’s dead, or in prison – and both are likely, if you ask me – he has gone.’

Crozier drank, to hide his disappointment. ‘Any idea where?’

‘How would I know?’ The landlord wiped the counter, and turned to another customer. When he had served him, he came back. ‘I suppose you could ask that man over there.’

He indicated a tall, lank soldier, who had just entered and was hanging his tan leather cloak on a peg by the door, To this he added his wide-brimmed hat, so it looked as if there had been an execution, the body suspended as a warning to all. When the man reached the counter his drink was already waiting, and Crozier recognised one who was used to command. This was no foot soldier, but no doubt the captain of Dacre’s patrol.

The borderer edged closer, ordered another beer, and from beneath his hat looked the soldier over. The face was ungiving, plain features distinguished only by a purpling nose and red-veined cheeks. He drank as if his throat were a sluice. When the first pangs of thirst appeared to have been assuaged, Crozier struck up conversation, if the man’s one-word answers qualified as that. As his mug was refilled, so fast it might have sprung a leak, Crozier mentioned Barton’s name. The man paused, his drink halfway to his lips. ‘Barton, ye say? What’s yer interest in him?’

‘He’s my wife’s cousin,’ Crozier replied. ‘I was hoping he could help me find work.’

‘God knows what Dacre’s thinking, employing scum like him. But he’s left, praise the saints. Disappeared last week, along with one of the scullery maids. Poor girl.’

Crozier appeared disheartened, and lapsed into silence.

‘What sort of work?’ the soldier asked, when another tankard had been dealt with. ‘You another one hiding from the law?’

Crozier looked affronted. ‘Cattle’s my line. So many herds have been stolen and killed in my part of the world, I was looking to start again, somewhere better.’

The soldier nodded, gravely. ‘Well, good luck to ye. I don’t know of anything going round here, but—’

‘Forget it,’ said Crozier, draining his mug. ‘It was a bad idea.’ He nodded a farewell and left, squeezing his way through the crowded room. At the door he lifted the soldier’s cloak and hat from its peg, and was gone before anyone noticed.

‘Ye’re back soon, captain,’ said the sentry at the castle gates. Crozier swayed in the saddle, as if he had been long enough at the bar, and raised an impatient hand. Face hidden by the soldier’s hat, wrapped in his buff-coloured cloak, he rode into the yard. The place was quiet, the walls high and smooth, the gates that had just been closed behind him as heavy as a portcullis.

The stables were on his left, and as he dismounted he threw the cloak behind the horses’ dung-heap before finding a stable boy and, without a word, giving him the mare’s reins.

He strode towards the castle, making for the rear. At this hour of the evening the servants were busy making fires and preparing dinner. Watching the back door, Crozier waited until a kitchen maid was stooped over the courtyard well before slipping into the passageway, past servants carrying trays laden with platters. He made his way to the heart of the castle by the servants’ stairs. No shout stopped him; nobody even gave him a glance. Sir Christopher and Sir Philip were in residence and serving their dinner made the kitchen servants blind to anyone but the cooks. Had they been questioned later that night, they would have confessed complete innocence. They had indeed seen a dark figure pass between them, but they did not notice it.

The bustle of the kitchens faded, and when he stepped into the castle’s hallway the only sound came from the fireside, where a pair of greyhounds lay, tails thumping at the sight of company. He bent, tickling their ears, and they whined with pleasure. ‘Come on then,’ he said, clicking his fingers, and the dogs unfolded their legs and followed him, tails held high.

Another flight of stairs brought him to the castle’s private quarters. Before he could think where to find the baron’s daughter, a young woman in a linen apron stepped into the hallway, carrying a ewer. She looked up, and would have dropped the pewter jug in fright, had he not caught it. Water splashed over the flagstones, but he laughed, and she joined him. The dogs lapped at the soapy spill, and the girl was distracted, and confused, answering Crozier without thinking when he asked, ‘Is there anyone in that room?’ At her reply, he put his hand over her mouth, and dragged her into the chamber she had just left. This time the ewer fell, its crash dulled by a rug. Above Crozier’s hand her eyes rolled in terror.

‘Don’t be afraid,’ he whispered, ‘I won’t hurt you if you help me. When I take my hand away, you must not shout, or else I will be obliged to use my knife. You understand?’

She nodded, trembling like a rabbit in a sack.

‘So then,’ said Crozier softly, pushing her onto the bed, and sitting close, his hand around her arm. The greyhounds prowled the walls, as if sniffing out its secrets for him. ‘Is this the young mistress’s room?’

She shook her head. ‘Sir Philip’s,’ she said, so quietly he could barely catch the words.

‘Where is she then?’

The girl gave a moan. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘She’s left.’

‘Along with the scullery maid?’ Crozier sensed something worse than he had expected. But again the girl shook her head. She began to cry.

‘It is Oliver Barton I am looking for,’ said Crozier. ‘I’m interested in no one but him. Do you or your mistress know where he’s gone?’

The girl’s eyes were wide with fear, and he realised it was not him she was scared of. ‘I promised not to tell,’ she stammered. ‘The mistress and Barton said they would have me whipped and dismissed if I breathed a word.’

‘Where have they gone? If you do not tell me . . .’ Crozier pulled out his knife.

The maid whimpered, making the dogs’ ears prick up. She spoke in a gabble. ‘Mistress Joan told everyone she was going to stay with her sister near Bolton, and had made arrangements with the Bishop of Carlisle to travel that far with his entourage, on his way to London. She got her father’s guards to chaperon her to the bishop’s palace, and made the scullery maid tell the cook that
she
was running off with Barton, to give them time to get away together.’

‘So where have they gone, Mistress Joan and Barton?’

‘They were going to make for the Scottish border, to get married there.’

‘Married? To a man like that?’ The disbelief in Crozier’s voice made the maid blush.

‘Mistress Joan loves him. She says he looks rough, and acts rough, but he is just like her father, firm, and brave, and kind. He makes her feel safe. And yet she left in tears. Terrible, it was. Barton had to throw her onto their horse, and they rode off together. She kept looking back . . .’ The girl wiped her eyes on her apron. ‘Will I get into trouble?’ she whispered.

‘Only if you don’t tell me exactly where they were going.’ Crozier eyed the door, but the passageway was quiet. He fingered the tip of his knife, as if testing its sharpness.

‘She said there is a family place near the border where they could stay once they were married, until her father got over his rage.’

‘Its name?’

‘I don’t know. A tower house, near Liddesdale, where there’s always feuding.’

‘Your mistress is a fool,’ said Crozier, pulling the girl off the bed. ‘That man will never marry her, or stay with her if he does.’

‘So I told her. But she slapped me and told me to shut up.’ She began to sob.

‘Be quiet!’ he hissed. ‘I need you to get me out of the castle, and then you will be safe. If you call out or set the guards on me, I will kill your mistress as well as Barton. But if you help, then I will see she gets safely home.’

‘H . . . h . . . how do I get you out of here?’ she asked, her eyes liquid with tears. ‘I am not allowed out after dark, without permission.’

‘I give you mine,’ said Crozier grimly, and looked round the room for paper and pen.

A little later, the maid rode up to the castle gates, on Crozier’s mare. She was dressed for the road, in riding cape and boots, the greyhounds trotting behind her. ‘Let me pass,’ she called up to the sentry, waving the paper on which Blackbird’s permission was indecipherably written, as was his style. ‘I am on my mistress’s business,’ she said, ‘with her dogs for protection.’

‘Late night out for you, pet,’ the guard replied, releasing the bars and drawing back the gates, without a glance at the paper. ‘You sure you’re not off to meet yer swain?’ He chortled. ‘Lucky man, he is. If I didn’t have a goodwife of my own . . .’

The maid responded indignantly, with a flirtatious lift of her chin, hoping to keep the man’s eyes on her alone. As the gates swung open, Crozier sidled along the dimly lit wall, and under the arch. He was beyond the gate when the guard caught sight of him and gave a cry, but by then the maid had ridden beyond the walls. Grabbing the saddle, Crozier leapt up behind her and took the reins. Before the guard could summon help, the horse had bolted, and the pair were almost out of sight, the greyhounds racing far ahead, elated at their freedom.

‘Let me down!’ the maid cried, struggling against him as Crozier rode headlong, the castle now far behind, but not until they reached the village did he pull up the reins, and let her slide off.

‘Your mistress will be safe home one day soon,’ he said, as she stood staring around her in dismay at being such a distance from the castle. ‘Don’t look so alarmed. The dogs will keep you company, and you’ll find help in the tavern.’ He laughed. ‘You can tell the captain he’ll find his cloak in the midden.’ Touching the brim of his hat, he turned the mare towards the fields, and was quickly swallowed by the night.