After Flodden (10 page)

‘When this letter reaches your hand, fear not. I am as certain as one can be that I will be close behind. I embrace you, and I salute you, and I will soon do so in person,

‘Your only and most loving son.’

The spy rolled up the paper, and bound it with twine. Before reveille had been called, it was in the hand of a camp follower, as was a fistful of coins, and the same again promised from the
recipient when the missive reached her. By the time the bugles sounded, the young messenger was already out of the valley and heading north, wondering how much bread and sausage the coins would
bring if he had first bought himself a mule.

*    *    *

7 September 1513

The camp lay quiet under darkness. Rain fell, steady and unrelenting. Overhead, leaves dripped. Underfoot, the ground was damp, sizzling as drops from high above rolled branch
to branch onto the forest floor. Horses stood, dozing in the fug of their woodland stable, their breath creating a midnight mist. Under tents and makeshift awnings strung between trees, the
soldiers slept. Only a bugle would wake them now.

In the dark, troops covered the forest floor like a landslide, a tumble of black shapes. No matter where the army was pitched, when reveille was called it was like the day of resurrection, slow,
aching, earthy figures dragging themselves out of their plaids and bedrolls and rising, rubbing their eyes, as if they had been long underground, and the living world only a memory.

The letter-writer slithered out of his bedroll and fastened his small sword onto his hip. He crept onto his horse, his head low upon its neck. Were it noticed, the horse would appear to be
straying riderless from the camp.

He allowed it to amble towards the edge of the forest, picking along a path only it could see, between slumbering soldiers. When at last the trees thinned and the horse stepped out into the
rain, its rider sat up, slipped his feet into his stirrups, and spurred the beast on into the dark. The English camp was not far away, but the night was black, and the hillsides rough. It would be
a demanding ride.

By the time he smelled campfires, his horse was in a sweat, its sides heaving at the speed he had forced on it. The spy patted its neck and bent to whisper in its ear. It was as much owl as
horse, keeping its footing in the dark as surely if he were holding a torch over its head, but it was tiring work, and both rider and mount were glad of a rest.

Surrey’s messenger had told him to meet beneath the bridge outside the village whose pastureland the army had commandeered. After crossing hills and valleys, guided only by a river and a
shy, pale moon, it was simple to find the bridge, and a relief to take shelter beneath it.

He waited, listening to a month of rain racing by. It was the first moment of inaction the spy had enjoyed in weeks. Under the bridge’s vault, he felt as if he had escaped the world, and
himself. He had hidden as a boy in bolt holes like this, able to watch his pursuers while they could not see him. He remembered that prickling sensation, part hysteria, part power as their steps
grew closer, and he must decide whether to bolt, or give himself up. Always, he preferred to run, no matter how close the pursuit. He could outrun anyone.

His heartbeat slowed, and the tremor in his eyelid eased. For a few minutes he was almost at peace. The sodden land soaked up the sounds of the night, and they reached him as if muffled. A fox
barked, deep in the wood nearby, and there was a scurry from the bank near his horse as a vole or water-rat slipped into the current. The river had just swallowed it when he heard a hoof upon the
bridge, followed by the scrape of spurred boots, and the commotion of grass as a large figure made its way down the verge to the riverbank.

Thomas Howard, Earl of Surrey appeared under the bridge, a formless shape in grey. His size was shocking in this confined space, and the spy took a step backward as the soldier scraped a flint
and made a flame, sending his shadow bounding out across the vault. There was barely room for two men and a horse under the narrow stone arch, and their intimacy gave the meeting an air of
friendliness that was soon to fade.

‘I huvnae much time,’ said the spy, glancing over Surrey’s shoulder as if expecting to see King James follow him into the rendezvous.

‘Well, what news then?’ asked the earl. ‘Any sign that James will negotiate?’

The spy shook his head. ‘None whitsoever. He’s hell-bent on battle. He believes himsel’ the aggrieved party, and nothing will temper his fury, or self-righteousness. He looks
forrit tae meeting yer troops.’

Surrey’s voice was harsh. ‘We are in a damnable position. Almost a day’s march from Branxton, and already the men are exhausted. James is so well dug in, he might as well be in
the Tower of London. His position is like a fortress.’

‘No’ all’s well on the Scottish side either, my lord. They’ve lost hunners through desertion in the past week, and a thousand or mair since the campaign began. Many are
sick, and a good number’s deid. Some say it’s the plague. Those who are healthy are hungry, an’ angry, an’ wabbit. James is under pressure. He argues wi’ his advisors.
He threatened one wi’ exile for daring to question his judgement. He’s losing his calm. He talks of being trapped in his position, because his guns are too mighty to be moved fast,
like.’

The earl relaxed a little.

‘Ye should ken also,’ continued the spy, ‘that when it comes tae battle, James will very likely be at the heid o’ his troops, in the very thick of the advance.’

‘Really?’ said Surrey, sharply. ‘I thought he would be commanding his men himself. Why so?’

‘Because he’s an arrogant fool, and a dreamer, who loves nothing better than his image of himsel’ as one ae God’s warriors. Action, not caution, is what excites him. That
could be to your advantage. If he were tae fall early in the fight, ye would not need to overwhelm his army to claim victory.’

‘And even if he does not die, who will marshall the troops as the fight gathers pace? Without the king in charge, there will be confusion. You greatly cheer me, young man. Greatly.’
The earl’s voice lost some of its edge. He put a hand on the mare, stroking her nose as he considered this information.

The spy stood rigid. The flame revealed a face chiselled from basalt. ‘I’m glad I cheer ye, sir. I terrify mysel’. Every day since leaving Edinburgh I hae risked discovery and
death – a most horrible death – and the money you’ve promised would scarcely pay for ma shroud. I wonder why I do it, for so poxy a reward.’ He stared at Surrey.

The earl straightened his back. ‘You exaggerate, sir. The sum we agreed, and monies you have already received are scarcely mean. They would pay for a requiem at least.’

‘I dinnae deserve yer mockery,’ said the spy, turning away from him to stare at the water, invisible but loud at his feet. ‘I’ve been a faithful agent nigh on three
years. Ye’ve never had cause tae doubt my allegiance, or my courage. On two occasions I’ve come close to discovery. I cannae survive a third. Even James will grow suspicious.’

The earl nodded in apology. ‘It was not my intention to mock. You have done fine work for us, some of the most fruitful I’ve known. But you must see that this is a most inconvenient
time to state terms.’ He raised a hand to silence the spy, who had begun to interrupt. ‘As I say, your work has been invaluable. Henry rates your intelligence very highly. There is
every chance he will give you whatever you request, if we are successful. But it is not in my keep to promise you anything more than we first agreed.’

‘I dinnae believe that,’ said the spy, his voice tight as if holding back his bile. ‘Wi’ Henry out of the country, ye’re his earthly representative in England. Ye
can gie me whitever sum ye think I am due.’

‘But for God’s sake, man, why have this conversation now? Can it not wait? In a day’s time we go into battle. Money should be the last thing on anyone’s mind. Say your
prayers, and hope to live this week out. If you do – if any of us does – we will talk again.’

Something close to contempt was detectable in the spy’s tone. ‘If the Scots win this battle, as it seems likely they will, ye will need me even mair than you do now. I can continue
tae report back until ye’ve gleaned enough tae overcome them. At which point I want a promise of land, somewhere far frae the border, and a new name, to ensure my safety.’

‘My boy,’ said the earl, all friendliness gone, ‘are you really in a position to bargain?’

The spy shrugged. Even by flickering light the earl could not miss the coldness of his stare. ‘So be it,’ said the spy, as if resigned. ‘I hae an idea of James’s battle
plan, and very interesting it is too, but,’ he gathered the horse’s reins, ‘if ye cannae afford that information, that’s yer choice.’

‘Blackmail?’ The earl was startled.

‘Jist a business proposition.’

A pragmatic man, Surrey knew he was beaten. He needed facts more than he needed to win this encounter.

‘Very well,’ he said, with the sigh of the outwitted. ‘I’m not sure I can even blame you for your tactics. God knows we are all dispensable in this world. The Almighty
may come to our aid, but each man must also look out for himself. And in your case, you are worth a good price.’

A blackbird flew through the arch with a chattering cry. Morning was on its way. As the riverbank slowly awoke, and the rain clouds grew pale in the leaden dawn, the spy passed on what he knew
of James’s deployment of his troops. It was an urgent exchange, Surrey repeating each fact so as not to forget, and the spy speaking fast because he must be far away from here before first
light.

CHAPTER SIX

1 October 1513

The letter from Coldstream arrived as Paniter had expected. He broke the seal and spread open the sheet. Lord Home’s hand was a sprawl, wasting paper as only a man with
money and no sense could afford. Its message was bleak. Benoit Brenier, he wrote, was a decent soldier, who made up in enthusiasm what he lacked in military finesse. Home recalled him in training
exercises in the days before battle, but after that had no memory of him. His position was on the flank, beyond Home’s sight.

His script grew wilder as he relived events: ‘The smoke, the confusion of moving our position, the sheer ill-fortune of the day meant I noticed nothing but what was essential to carry our
men to victory. By the time I could draw breath, mayhem had overwhelmed the field. Most likely Brenier, bull-headed, courageous, foolish man that he was, returned to the fray against my express
orders. I would wager that his body now lies limed in Branxton’s pit. My condolences to his family. His was another needless death.’

Paniter’s vision narrowed and his temples began to throb. His palms grew damp. Home’s suspicions about Brenier’s fate were hardly unexpected, but his disrespect for his fallen
companions, his refusal to acknowledge that he as a commander had played a craven part and might even be held responsible for the turning of the army’s hopes, was sickening. The secretary
crunched the letter in his hand as if it were a rag. Damn the man. He would pay for his treachery that day. He would pay, with his neck on the executioner’s block.

Paniter’s lips worked like a toothless crone’s as he invoked every curse he could find in his heart. For a man about to take holy orders, there was an abundance to draw on, and it
was some time before his muttered incantation came to an end. When he raised his head, he started to discover Gabriel Torrance in the room, watching the street from his window, studiedly not
looking his way. The arrival of the letter had driven his guest out of Paniter’s mind.

He ran a handkerchief over his brow. ‘Forgive me, Torrance,’ he said. ‘I am not myself still.’

‘Bad news, I gather?’ Gabriel looked concerned.

The secretary nodded.

‘Would you like me to leave?’ Gabriel waited to be dismissed, but Paniter stared at the wall behind him without answering. He held Home’s letter out in a trembling hand as if
he were beseeching an invisible authority for help with its contents. At last he dropped his hand, and the letter fell to the floor. He turned to the courtier. ‘War sounds a noble venture,
does it not, Torrance? An honourable pastime for kings and their braves. The only fair guide to who wins good fortune, and who loses it.’ He retrieved the letter, his face flushing with
anger. ‘But you know, my son, it is only when you see its scarlet teeth, when you smell its stinking cannibal breath that you realise that war is the devil’s own work. It is very hell.
Whoever wins.’

Gabriel sat down on the edge of a chair. Unease urged him to leave at once; compassion insisted he do his duty. A well brought up young man, his sense of duty won. He pressed a hand to his arm,
where he was bandaged, and indicated that the secretary should continue. While his liege talked, Gabriel fingered the rough cotton that held his wound together. He felt a little queasy.

‘D’you recall the king’s late mistress, that comely girl in Leith?’ Paniter asked. Gabriel nodded. ‘Well, her brother has died at Flodden, it would appear, and his
younger sister needs to be told. She’s only one of thousands like, but it tears my heart to pieces’ – he made a wrenching gesture over his shirt – ‘to destroy another
with such news the way I have been destroyed. Like me she will be ruined, her spirit cast away as if it were as light and useless as dust on the wind. I pity her.’