After Flodden (27 page)

Dacre laid a conciliatory hand on the bishop’s sleeve. ‘You can put your faith in me, Ruthall,’ he said. ‘I know this border and its troublemakers better than they know
themselves.’ Picking his bone clean, the bishop did not reply, but his hands grew steadier, and his colour slowly began to fade.

‘What report from the widowed queen?’ Surrey asked the march warden.

‘Nothing yet,’ he replied, ‘it is likely too soon to hope for a reply, but I am told that before even she received our offer, Margaret was saying that until Henry made
reparation for killing her husband, she would do nothing to help our cause. An alliance with us was repugnant to her.’ He sighed. ‘That was perhaps only to be expected, so soon after
her bereavement. We might still dare hope that she will come out of her gloom and see sense in time. All Hallows’ Eve, when we told her we would be obliged to take action, draws close . . .
’

‘No,’ said Surrey, the word falling like a stone. ‘She is a woman, weakened by grief and without a counsellor worthy of the name to advise her. Be assured, Dacre, she will not
see the necessity of joining forces with us to tame the border. From this moment we must assume we proceed alone. Forget the terms agreed, and act on our own behalf. And do so at once.’

The bishop nodded vigorously. ‘Far better to have nothing to do with her,’ he said, his mouth full of pigeon. ‘Henry says she is a wildcat, feral and vicious.’

After a moment’s rumination, Dacre nodded. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘So we are all agreed who we first turn our attention to?’

Surrey raised an eyebrow. ‘I assume you refer to the men who manhandled your messenger?’

‘Indeed,’ he replied, ‘the Croziers. A poxy clan from Teviotdale, of no influence since I dealt with the chief some years back. But they are impertinent, and have grown
audacious while our backs have been turned. I fear rebellion is brewing in that quarter. With your assent, gentlemen, I will set my men upon them as an example of what to expect when you meddle
with me. With us, I should say.’

‘It sounds,’ said Surrey, ‘as if you will enjoy the chance to take your own private revenge. And who could blame you?’

Dacre shook his head. ‘My lord, I will leave that to my lieutenants. I will be far more useful raising the west march against the Scots from my castle at Naworth. I will launch an attack
on Liddesdale shortly after the killing of Crozier and his clan. That way, fire and death will spread through the Borders from both ends, and meet in the middle.

‘A joyous conflagration, my son,’ said the bishop, licking his fingers as if they were the enemies’ bones.

‘While you deal thus with the middle and the west marches,’ said the earl, ‘I will handle the east, to ensure it does not rise to support our foe. The merest whisper of this
campaign could ruin everything. Surprise is essential. When we strike, the Croziers must be beyond hope of help.’

He took a first sip of his ale and stretched out his legs, cheered at the prospect of action and a respite from his brooding thoughts.

The bishop lifted his tankard. ‘To the Croziers. May we trap them like fish in a net.’

‘Mice in a butterchurn,’ said Surrey, raising his ale.

‘Lice, more like,’ said Dacre, tipping his drink towards them with a smile as sweet as honey.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

9 October 1513

It was a subdued party that left Crozier’s Keep the following afternoon. Louise’s head was floury with riddled ash beneath its linen cap, though in the gathering
cold of autumn she was glad of the padded jerkin beneath her dress. It was borrowed from Tom, the slimmest of the family, and when he saw it on her, falling below her knees and trebling her girth,
he smiled. ‘You look like a bairn playing dressing-up.’

‘This is no game, lad,’ said his brother, but he too lingered on the sight of Louise, transformed once more into a stout old biddie more likely to be found stirring suet pudding than
creeping under darkness into enemy country with a dagger in her boots.

In the stables, Hob was sulking. He did not want to be left behind. ‘I should be with the mistress,’ he had said that morning, when Crozier explained their plans. ‘She might
need me. I dinnae trust that fancy chiel.’

Crozier had no time to humour the boy. ‘You would only give her something else to worry about,’ he said. ‘She’ll get on better knowing you are safe here. And I will watch
out for the courtier. I have my eye on him, never fear.’ Hob drew his sleeve across his nose, and ran into the yard, hiding his tears.

At midday, when the horses were saddled, the boy threw his arms around Louise, and buried his head in her cloak. ‘Dinnae forget tae come back for me, promise?’

She hugged him, and laid her cheek on his head, straw dust tickling her nose. ‘I will never forget to come back for you, I give you my word, however long it takes. But I need you to look
after Hans and the vixen. Crozier says I’m to ride one of his horses.’

She lifted her head to look at him. ‘I trust no-one with old Hans but you, and once I have news of my brother I will be back for you all. Look after Hans and the vixen well. The vixen
especially. She will need to sleep with you.’

She felt a pang. Despite his air of independence, he was still only a child. ‘Will you mind very much staying behind?’

‘Naw,’ said the boy, with a rich sniff. ‘I like it here fine, with the animals and a’, but I will like it better once ye’re back again.’ His eyes narrowed.
‘But will ye be bringing yon courtier when ye return?’

Louise blushed. ‘I couldn’t say, Hob. Why – would you like me to?’

‘I’m no fashed,’ he lied, and ran back into the stables, where he hid in the hayloft until they had left.

While Mother Crozier and Louise were packing the saddlebags with food, the Borderer took Gabriel on one side. His mistrust of this man had grown on acquaintance, and it was for fear of what he
might do, even more than a wish to help Louise, that he was prepared to risk the journey to Durham. He suspected that if he let the king’s man out of his sight, he would conspire with Dacre
to destroy him and all his kind. When it came to the Borders, the ties of that class of man were far thicker than those of patriotism, and he had seen in Torrance’s eyes his loathing of
Crozier, and his men.

Unused to dissembling, the Borderer spoke quietly: ‘I owe you an apology.’ The courtier could never know what it cost him to utter those words, treacherous though they were. Crozier
swallowed, and continued: ‘I was churlish last night, and uncivil. I’m sorry. From that first night on the moors, I’ve treated you roughly. No wonder you don’t trust me. But
what lies ahead of us these next few days will be tough. We need to pull together.’ He put out his hand: ‘For the sake of Mistress Brenier, we should settle our differences and try to
get on. At least for now.’

Gabriel hesitated. He looked at the Borderer, his harsh face, and uncouth dress. He was little better than a brigand, but out in these wild parts, under such circumstances, a truce might be more
useful than to be at each other’s throats. He inclined his head: ‘You are right. I am willing to be friends. Besides,’ he added, ‘my own behaviour has not been as good as it
might. Not all the blame is yours.’

They shook hands, the woodsman’s calloused palm gripping fingers so slender, pale and soft they might have been carved from wax.

For the first few hours they rode in daylight, following a trail due south, and crossing the border under cover of woodland after the sun had set. They moved swiftly and with little noise beyond
the clink of bridle and spur. Louise’s sturdy pony cantered close on the tail of the Borderer’s mare, Gabriel bringing up the rear on his stallion. As the light faded, and the land
quietened, their pace slowed and the courtier found himself looking over his shoulder. It was dusk when he heard a snapping of twigs that confirmed his suspicions. ‘We are being
followed,’ he said in a harsh whisper, and pulled up. He and Crozier drew their swords, and in the deepening gloom they watched the path. Leaves rustled, there was a quivering of bushes and
the vixen trotted into sight. With a bark, she scampered to Louise’s side and pawed at her boots.

‘She can’t come with us,’ said Crozier. ‘It’s well over a hundred miles to Durham, and we’ll be riding too hard for a dog her size, even if she weren’t
injured.’

‘She will learn as much if we simply ride on. She will tire, and fall behind,’ said Gabriel, who had not yet forgiven her for biting him.

Louise rubbed the vixen’s ears. They were right. There was no place for her on this journey. Yet seeing her she realised how much she wanted her company.

‘I’m vexed I didn’t think to have her tied up until we were long gone,’ she said. ‘But now she is here, I don’t know how to make her go back. She’s
stubborn. She will run herself dead, rather than give up.’

There was silence, as the men considered the animal. Gabriel’s face hardened but before he could speak Crozier dismounted. He bent to pat the mongrel. ‘You are trouble,’ he
said, ‘as if we needed more.’ The vixen sat back on her haunches and looked into his eyes, tongue lolling.

With a shake of his head, he picked her up. ‘We’d better take her with us,’ he said. ‘What else can we do now? She can ride pillion tonight.’ He looked up at
Louise. ‘You and I can take turns carrying her when she tires. But let me be very clear: you must make sure she does not bark or whine, or put our lives in danger. Otherwise we will have no
choice but to leave her behind. D’you understand?’

Louise nodded, reaching out for the dog, who settled on the pommel between the reins and stared over the pony’s head, as if her role was lookout. Gabriel shook his head. Nothing good could
come of bringing a menagerie.

On they rode. As night settled around them, they slowed to a walk. The horses were uneasy, snorting if a startled bird flapped from its roost or a fox crossed their path. The riders kept them on
a short rein and spoke to them gently, as if they were children afraid of the dark.

The woodlands stretched mile after mile. There was a dreamlike monotony about their plodding passage, trees so densely packed they were like battalions awaiting inspection, each trunk identical
to the last. Louise started to feel drowsy, and only the thought of what might happen if she fell asleep and let the reins fall kept her alert.

In a while the trees began to thin, and Crozier halted at the edge of the woods. A brackish plain stretched before them, lit by a watery moon. ‘We’re onto the moors here,’ he
said. ‘It’s going to get harder now, and there’s a steep climb ahead. Fortunately, there’s little chance of meeting anyone out here. Keep close behind me and don’t
leave the path. There are sheer drops in places.’

‘Where exactly are we?’ Gabriel asked.

‘We’re heading towards the Kielder pass. Beyond that is Redesdale and the road to Otterburn. When we’ve got over the pass, we can take cover, and get some food and rest. So
far, we’re making good time.’

They set off, the horses following each other dutifully, nose to tail. The wind whistled across the marsh grasses, its pitch deepening as they rode down into the valley, before rising, step upon
step, up the side of a hill whose dark bulk loomed over them like a raised fist. As they picked their way up the slope, Louise’s pony stumbled, sending pebbles tumbling over the edge of the
path. She heard them clatter onto distant rock. Were the pony to lose its footing, he and his rider would fall like stone, to be broken a hundred feet below. She gripped the reins and turned her
face towards the steep bank, rather than the cavernous air that breathed too close on her shoulder.

Eventually they reached the valley head, where Crozier reined in. He pointed backwards, over the road they had just taken. By moonlight the rugged bowl they had climbed out of looked fierce and
wide as a hungry mouth. ‘That’s known as the Witches’ Clutch,’ he said. ‘There’s more than a few have lost their way there, and gone over the edge. Some say that
when the witches are out in force, the hills close in on their victims, and crush them to death. That’s why their bones are never found, just dust on the valley floor.’

‘That’s no more than an old wife’s tale, surely,’ said Louise.

‘Peasant superstition,’ said Gabriel with a laugh, ‘never you fear.’

‘Superstition it may be,’ said Crozier, ‘but strange things happen out here that folk find hard to explain. I’m not saying I believe the witches have anything to do with
it. But there’s something uncanny about these parts. I wouldn’t want to live hereabouts, that’s for sure.’

They spurred their horses into a canter along the broad ridge path. Picked out against the moonlit sky, they were too conspicuous for Crozier’s liking. It might be the middle of the night,
but the sooner they were out of sight, the safer he would feel.

But already they had been spotted. In a thatched stone hovel on the hillside, a shepherd’s widow first heard and then saw them. She watched the riders pass before picking up her skein of
wool. She spat into the fire. ‘Let them that wants to stay hidden be found, and them that wants to be found be hidden from all but the true.’ She shaped an effigy from a hank of wool
and cast it onto the embers. ‘Go after them, little one.’ The wool crinkled, kinked, and slowly curled, to die in a flicker of flame.