Dacre's War (46 page)

Hob caught Ella’s arm as she left Louise’s room with a basin of water. ‘How’s she doing?’ he asked.

Ella shook her head. ‘It’s no goin to be easy. The pains are comin every few minutes, but the baby’s no budging.’ She wiped her face with a forearm. ‘Ye can go and sit wi her, if ye like, while I get mair hot water.’

‘Would I no do better to get the midwife from the village?’

Ella thought of the wifie’s ale-sour breath, the filth on her apron and under her nails. ‘No, lad, she’s safer with us.’

In the bedchamber Louise lay in her shift, which was moulded to her with sweat. She turned when Hob entered, and gave a weak smile. He was shocked at her pallor, the puffiness of her face, and of the hand she held out to him. This he took, and held between his as if it was something precious.

‘It wasn’t as hard with Helene,’ she whispered. ‘I didn’t expect this.’

Hob rubbed her hand. ‘I’ve seen it with the horses. They strain and strain, and you think it’s never comin, and then it does, and when it’s over they forget as soon as they see their foal, healthy and well.’

Louise turned her head on the pillow and looked at the window, where mid-afternoon was leaching the light. The room was growing darker, but the tapers had not yet been lit.

‘Two days it’s been now,’ she said softly. ‘I’m holding on till Crozier gets back.’ Her eyes were glassy, as if she could see something beyond the shutters that was hidden to everyone else.

There was no knowing when the master would return, but Hob’s tongue had a mind of its own. ‘He’ll be here soon,’ he said, ‘I ken he will. Just you keep going. You mustn’t give up.’ A lump thickened his throat, and he got up. ‘I’m off to get something that might help.’

He found Ella in the kitchens. ‘I’ve seen mares in her condition,’ he said, ‘when the foal’s twisted the wrong way round.’

‘For Christ’s sake, she’s not a horse,’ said Ella, fear making her fierce.

Hob put a hand on her arm. ‘If you can give her an infusion of dog mercury and juniper, it might help.’

‘Oh yes?’ asked Ella, sounding suspicious. ‘How on God’s earth is that going to help our wee lassie?’

Her shrillness brought Benoit to the door, and Hob explained. The drink would loosen her pelvis, and give the baby more room to move. And, if he mixed it with poppyseed, she would feel less pain.

Benoit nodded. ‘It cannae harm her, surely. Off you go, lad, and get whatever you think she needs.’

When he had left, Benoit put his arm around Ella. They did not speak, but both were remembering how different it had been for her. Their children had been born in haste, a splash of broken waters, an hour of wailing, and out they slid, slick and easy as lambs. Wiping away a tear, Ella sniffed, and got back to the stove, where the water was bubbling.

Upstairs, Louise curled. Her voice was hoarse from moaning, her lips bitten raw. She felt herself growing weaker and so, she knew, was the baby. As darkness fell, the room glowed softly in the light of the log fire and rush lamps. Tears slid down her cheeks. It was like being in a trap, with only one way out, and the doorway growing narrower with every hour.

That night was a torment, Louise racked with rolling breakers of pain, but the baby unable to move. A dishwater light was seeping through the shutters when Louise pulled Ella close. ‘Get me paper,’ she whispered. ‘I can’t last much longer. I must write to Crozier. He won’t get back in time.’

‘Hen, he’ll be here. I promise ye, he’ll get here,’ said Ella, but her tears belied her words and she left, as fast as she could after two days without sleep.

Hob was in the passageway, propped against the wall. He slipped into the room while Ella was gone, and took a cloth to wipe Louise’s forehead. ‘Have ye drunk the brew?’ he asked, ‘the juniper draught I brought you?’ Louise nodded, though she did not open her eyes.

Ella returned and, helping Louise to sit up, put paper and pen in her hand. She and Hob watched, bitter-faced, as the crow’s feather scratched over the page. Louise’s cheeks were flushed, but a tear-stained smile lifted her mouth as she pictured her husband, her clumsy pen and ill-spelled words sending him a farewell that he would only read when she was cold and gone. When she was done, she sank back and closed her eyes.

Benoit was at the door. Ella’s stricken look answered the unspoken question, and he set off at a run to fetch Father Walsh.

The fire crackled, and from the trees outside a robin scolded the breaking day. Hob looked at Ella, and knew she was defeated. Drawing her to the window, he lowered his voice. ‘No,’ he said. ‘We cannae leave it like this. Ye have to trust me, Ella. I ken what to do.’

‘It’s no right, you helpin, wi a woman who’s no your wife.’

Hob passed a hand over his face and looked at Ella, who was grey with misery. ‘If I don’t, we’ll lose the bairn as well as her.’

Shaking her head, but too tired to argue, Ella fetched hot water and cloths, as he instructed. The boy washed his hands, and spoke to Louise, who had passed almost into unconsciousness. ‘Lou,’ he said, ‘I’m going to try to turn your bairn. If the infusion’s done its trick, I’ll be able to reach him. Can you bear any more?’ She gave a moan, and what might have been a nod.

Lifting her shift, Hob felt gently around her abdomen, and then set to work. What he was doing might save the child, or the mother, but though he did not allow himself to put the thought into words, he did not believe it possible that both would live.

The messenger returned to Naworth, informing Blackbird, Sir Philip and Sir Christopher that Dacre was close behind. It was already dark, evening closing in around the castle and the dale. Unable to settle, Blackbird paced the hallway. At the least noise he went into the yard, hoping to see the baron’s horse. His master would surely have ridden home fast, to avoid the dark. What was taking him so long?

Dacre’s place lay empty while the brothers ate their dinner, but when the table was cleared the servants left the baron’s mug and platter untouched. Later, the hour of ten having passed, the cook ventured out to ask Blackbird if he could go to his bed. ignoring him, the butler threw on his cloak, and called for his horse.

He rode out into the night, knowing he would find nothing good. His master’s health was poor, and he might have been taken ill, stranded on a hillside, waiting for help. How would he feel if he had not gone to his aid?

Beneath the trees the blackness was smothering, but out on the road a rind of moon appeared fitfully from behind the clouds. He took the eastward path, soon reaching the hills and the boundary of Dacre’s lands, which he followed like a seamstress stitching a seam.

In the darkness, his horse could go no faster than a trot. Midnight had long passed when he reached the hamlet that lay in a hollow beneath the hills, beyond which the messenger said he had met his lordship.

The eerie quiet of the early hours breathed on the back of his neck. Blackbird’s heart was beating hard as he rose onto the hilltops and felt the freshness of the moorland air, and the empty miles beyond them. The clink of his bridle was the only sound as he rode, other than the cries and scuffles of creatures his horse flushed from the grassland. A startled grouse flapped into the sky, making the stallion rear in fright; a rabbit got under his hooves; and a moth-eaten fox cast them a sullen backward glance as it slunk into a coppice of beech, a rat’s tail dangling from its mouth. Blackbird had never felt so strongly that he was an intruder in the wilds.

The wind eased as he began to descend from the hills, to the path on which Dacre had last been seen. He reached the village beyond the hills, where the baron had been besieged by villagers, and still there was no sign of him. Perplexed, Blackbird turned, and looked down the track, back the way he had come. He could smell a baker’s oven, and in a few cottages fires were already lit. At the trough in the market square, he dropped the reins to let his horse drink, taking a gulp from his flask of ale as he did so.

Day was on its way, darkness easing like a thinning fog. Slowly now, he walked back along the path between the trees towards the open hills. He began to call, shouting for his master, but his voice soon grew tired. Pulling up at the edge of the sycamore woods, he scanned the road ahead. Already it was growing visible as morning crept on, and the moon and stars retreated. In an hour it would be daylight, and he would be able to retrace his journey, searching as he went.

He dismounted, patting his horse, and leaned his head on its neck. The stallion was lipping his sleeve when its ears pricked. Lifting its head, it gave a whinnying neigh. Startled, Blackbird heard an answering call from deep inside the woods. Getting onto his horse, he guided it between the trees, and they picked their way through the shadows. Beneath the canopy, night clung on, the black pressing upon him like a blindfold. He shook his head, as if that would clear his vision, but nothing emerged beyond the outline of tree trunks, a shade darker than the sky.

He called Dacre’s name, and the distant horse neighed once more. As he made for the sound, out of the murk a pale glimmer beckoned. When he reached it, he found himself on the edge of a clearing, where daylight was creeping at last. Stumps of felled trees were scattered in the grass, looking, in the half-born light, like an army of men cut off at the knee. A saddled horse was making its way towards them, whickering as it skirted the stumps, its tail held high. Blackbird recognised Dacre’s stallion, and his master’s round-backed saddle. It was then he saw the shape trailing along the ground behind it, as if a deformed shadow clung to its side.

In an instant he was off his horse and lashing the stallion’s reins to a tree. Dacre’s body dangled, his boot caught in the stirrup. He hung face down, and when Blackbird turned him over it was clear the horse had bolted in panic through briars and thorns with his master dragging behind.

A sob was caught in Blackbird’s chest, making it hard to breathe. The horse stamped, desperate to be freed from its burden. Yelling at it to be still, Blackbird wrenched the baron’s boot from its vice, and the leg fell to earth with a thud. Pushing the horse aside, Blackbird sank to his knees beside his master. He touched the scratched and dirtied face, but it was cold as iron. The eyes stared, and the blue lips were parted, as if he had a last message to impart. Taking the gloved hand in his, Blackbird found it clenched. A scrap of paper was curled in its palm, crushed as the baron’s heart.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

November 1525

Crozier stood swaying a little, light-headed after the fight. Joan was weeping over Barton’s body, and did not look up when he told her she would one day be grateful to him for ridding her of a man who would only bring her grief.

‘Rape you, did he?’ he asked, wearily picking up his sword, and sheathing it. ‘Made you believe you had to run off with him to save your honour?’

The girl’s sobs were arrested. She turned to him, eyes wide with surprise. ‘It was not rape, ’ she said slowly. ‘Not really. . .’ Then she covered her face with her hands, and her cries resumed, louder and more despairing than ever.

‘Get yourself home, lass, ’ said Crozier, making for the door. ‘The keeper is in the stable. He’ll take you back to Naworth, where you belong.’

Out on the moors, he rode fast. After the rains, the skies were emptied of colour, matching his woebegone mood. His jaw throbbed, his knuckles ached, and his stomach turned queasy at the memory of Barton’s flesh under his hands. Thoughts crossed his mind, but found no hold, his head reeling as much from the brutal encounter as from being cracked on the stone floor.

It was two days’ ride to the keep, but as darkness drew on the mare’s pace slowed. She moved with the suspicion of a limp, and Crozier made camp for the night. Checking for loose nails or stones under her shoes, he rubbed her hock with liniment, praying the swelling under his fingers would not get worse.

The next day he rode with care, though he wanted to gallop headlong. It was ten days since he had left the keep. The danger Barton posed had been dealt with, but in these times, leaving home was always to unlock a door that trouble could creep through.

Liddesdale’s pitiless moors rolled on, harsh on the eye and the spirits. This was a deadened land, well suited to its masters, whose souls were as barren as its soil. He saw a pack of riders disappearing over a far-off hill, Armstrongs out on the hunt. They had not seen him, and he met no one else, the miles passing easily beneath him. Not until dusk did he cross into Teviotdale, its soft peaks and loamy earth welcoming him back. He slept sounder for being near his own lands, the smell of the oakwood around him the memory of childhood, and home.

The following morning the mare started fresh and fast, but after a few miles her pace slowed, her gait uneven and sore. Crozier dismounted, thinking the limp was worsening, and that she might be suffering a sprain. Sunlight danced on the grasslands, burnishing beeches in the woods below. With a sigh, he lifted her hoof, and found a stone lodged under her shoe. it was a minute’s work to free it with his knife. Running his hand over her hock, he found the swelling that had worried him had gone down. ‘Good girl, ’ he said, as he got into the saddle, and urged her into a trot.

The mare was as keen to be home as he. Crozier’s mood began to lift as the cool autumn air cleared his head and the dale spread out beneath him, a tapestry of browns and gold and fading green, melting in the distance into a sky so blue it was like a newborn’s eye. Three years and more he had lived with fear worse than he had ever known. Even now that Dacre had been disgraced he dared not believe he had been vanquished. His power, however, had been severely curtailed and that, Adam hoped, was enough. Slowly the truth was beginning to feel real: with the Warden General deposed, and Barton dead, and Scotland and England making peace, the Croziers were safer than they had been since he was a boy.

The beat of the mare’s hooves kept time with his quickening thoughts, his growing assurance that all would be well. He began to make plans. In the next few months he must strengthen the alliance of clans that safeguarded the shire. The better protected it was known to be, the less danger they would face. Benoit had earned himself a place as his second lieutenant, as fit as Tom to run the clan’s affairs. Both would now be given a more prominent position, under his watchful eye.

Reaching the woods that marked the boundary of his land, Crozier did not spy the buzzard on the boughs above, watching beneath half-closed lids. Rather, he was thinking of his wife. By the time he reached his western lookout there was an unaccustomed gentleness in his face. Reining in beneath the tower, he hailed the guard. ‘All well? ’ he shouted, raising a hand. The watchman looked down, and in that second Crozier’s heart contracted. ‘What? ’ he cried, at the guard’s hesitation. ‘What’s wrong? ’

‘Your wife . . . ’ the watchman began. ‘I’m no sure, ken, but they say . . . ’

Crozier did not wait to hear what they said. He was gone, the mare kicked into a canter through the woods, her hooves setting the leaves in a flurry, as if the north wind had passed. Crouched low on her neck, he saw nothing but the path ahead. The dread that threatened to overtake him if he slackened was kept at bay by his whip.

At his approach, a bugle sounded and the keep gates opened. Crozier reached the courtyard and leapt off the mare. The stableboy who ran out to meet him looked anxious, as did those servants who saw their master’s return, but Crozier had no eyes for them. He was inside the keep, and calling for Louise, before anyone could speak to him. The great hall was empty save for Old Crozier, asleep by the fire.

Crozier took in the scene. The fire was dead, and there was no sound of kitchen or children. Striding across the hall, he made for the passageway, and still there was no one about. He raced up the stairs and reached the door of his chamber, where he found a scarlet sheet, cast out of the room on the flagstones. Beside it lay his wife’s bloodied shift, so red and wet it could have been dipped in dye. With a groan, he opened the door, his pulse hammering in his ears.

Though it was day, the room was shuttered, lit by candles on the wall that cast a church-like glow. By the fireside, on the settle, Hob was asleep, chin slumped on his chest. On the bed lay Louise, pale as the fresh sheet that had been pulled up to her throat. She was barely recognisable, face swollen and mouth bruised, her skin the colour of rain. Her eyes were closed, her hair had been combed tidily over her shoulders, and she had a look of peace, as if she were finally at rest.

With a cry, Crozier was at her side, grasping her by the shoulders. Only then did he feel her warmth. Louise gave a sigh, and her eyelids flickered, but they did not open. A sob escaped him, and he sank his head to the sheet, trembling with relief. ‘Thank God,’ he mumbled, ‘thank God.’

Reaching for Louise’s hand, he pressed it to his lips. He put his cheek to hers, and spoke in her ear, his tears darkening the sheet. Murmuring his name, she slid back into the deep sleep he had disturbed.

Wakened, Hob stood by the bed. ‘We gave her something to make her sleep,’ he said. ‘She had a terrible time of it.’ Crozier saw the blood daubed on his shirt, but before he could ask what part he had played there was a scratch on the door and Ella came in. She too looked haggard. In her arms she carried a bundle, swaddled tight in a shawl. Crozier felt giddy.

‘Our child lives?’ he asked hoarsely, reaching out.

‘They both do,’ Ella replied, and placed in his arms two berry-red babes, nestled close to each other. The borderer stared at them, putting a finger to their hot faces, love licking through him like fire. Brushing a kiss on their foreheads, he passed them back.

All that day, and into the night, Crozier sat by Louise. He watched as his wife breathed softly. Unable to rest until he knew she would live, he laid his head on the bed, a hand on her wrist. Sometime after midnight, the first of the winter gales began to whistle around the keep, battering like a wayward traveller asking to be admitted. In the hour after dawn, as the shutters rattled and the chimney moaned, Louise woke at last. Feeling her stir, Crozier lifted his head. With a look as sweet and unfocused as that of their twins, Louise stretched out to him, and he held her close, the wind-blown forest outside the window muffling their broken words.

In a room down the passage a wet nurse suckled the infants, the girl as hungry as her brother. Warm and fed, they stared milkily at the rafters before descending into sleep. The nurse clucked, and pulled the shawl over the boy, whose head bore the marks of the pincers Hob had used to draw him forth. In his first minutes of life, Crozier’s heir had felt the touch of iron, and come into this world less innocent, and more knowing, than most.