After Flodden (39 page)

Crozier slammed the door. ‘Jesus and Mary,’ he muttered, brushing the flakes from his beard. His face was anxious, and Louise’s heart contracted. He spoke to Tom.
‘Let’s get the horses out of sight round the back.’

‘There’s a barn,’ said Benoit. ‘They will be fine and warm in there.’

Crozier nodded curtly, and disappeared with his brother into the snow. From the window Louise watched them, mere shadows in the blizzard’s maw. If Gabriel were to steal up on the cottage
in this, they would not know he was here until his hand was at the door, his face at the window.

*    *    *

Gabriel Torrance was a man with many regrets. He could not remember a time when he had not wished his life was different, that other people had made wiser decisions, or given
him a better deal. Rarely had he found fault with his own behaviour, but in one matter he knew he had been careless, and for this aberration he could not forgive himself.

Back in that accursed wood, as he kicked Benoit’s body over to make sure he was dead, he had heard someone approaching through the trees. It would have been simple to drive his knife
through the carpenter’s throat before leaving, to make sure the job was done. Perhaps it was because Benoit was sliced open like a gutted fish, or perhaps because he too was wounded and not
thinking clearly, but for whatever reason, he had not finished the task. Instead, he got onto his horse and galloped off before the intruder could catch sight of him.

Late the same day Gabriel returned to the wood with a shovel, expecting to find a corpse. He was met instead by a cold pool of black blood, and a scraping track through the leaves, as if Benoit
had risen like Lazarus, and dragged himself to safety. He sank to his knees, uttering a howl so furious, it was heard in the village below. They took it as an omen. The battle’s almost upon
us, they whispered, gathering their children and barring their doors.

Though Benoit’s wounds had looked mortal, Gabriel reflected, no good Samaritan would have carried him from the woods if he had been dead. The man must have had enough life left in him to
leave on his own feet, or with help. The danger he now posed to the courtier was as life-threatening as any sword’s blow. Until Benoit was despatched, Gabriel would be a haunted man, never
sure when his deeds would catch up with him. The worst of it was, he had no-one to blame but himself.

The road to Liddesdale passed through land so barren it felt as if even God had abandoned it. He had never seen a place so pitiless. Heathland stretched to the horizon on every side, and the
hills were treeless and scarred. A knifing wind made Gabriel’s eyes sting, and the day was growing still colder, the sky bruised and threatening. Dusk was falling when Hermitage castle
appeared below him, a gaunt fortress cupped in a valley’s palm. He urged his horse on with a weary kick.

Though the castle looked like a prison for the worst kind of offenders, he was given a warm welcome. The owner, Patrick Hepburn, had died at Flodden, and mourning flags draped the hallway.
Hepburn had been an ally of James, and his people were close associates of Patrick Paniter. They knew of Gabriel, and without hesitation they offered him a good dinner, and a soft bed. What they
could not do, however, was tell him of anyone in the neighbourhood who matched the silversmith’s description. He went to bed perplexed, but not yet beaten, and his optimism proved well
founded. The next morning, over breakfast, he learnt what he needed.

‘Elliot was the name, you say?’ asked Hepburn’s uncle, Archibald, refilling his guest’s tankard with beer and proffering oatcakes and honey to follow the mutton stew he
had just devoured.

Gabriel nodded, too busy eating to speak.

His host fiddled with the ears of his hound, whose head rested on his lap. ‘Thing is, it’s a large family, with many branches. Makes we Hepburns look like monks, the number of houses
they’ve spawned.’ He cackled. ‘Mind you, I’ve known monks who’ve fathered a dynasty or two.’

Gabriel kept his eye on his plate, and continued to chew.

‘They go by different names, is what I mean,’ continued Hepburn, unnerved by his guest’s silence. ‘Some Elliots are known as Redheugh, some call themselves Ellworthy.
There was even a Dalliot around here, once, who was more Elliot than the clan chief. Wouldn’t hear a word against them without settling the score at knife point.’ He laughed.
‘They’re a fiery breed, safest kept out in these empty hills where there’s not so many folk to quarrel with.’

Gabriel finished his meal, and sat back. ‘Go on,’ he said, cleaning his fingernails with a toothpick.

‘Well, now I think of it, there was a man once – about my father’s age – who spent his life in the hills with his hammer, mining and chiselling for tin, and such like. I
seem to recall he was a smith of some sort. May have been silver, for all I know.’

Gabriel sat forward. ‘His name?’

‘Now, there you have me.’ Hepburn furrowed his brow. He stared at the timbered roof, and down at his dog, as if searching for a piece of his memory mislaid years earlier. He shook
his head. ‘I’m damned if I can remember.’

Gabriel’s eyes gleamed, but before he could speak, Hepburn slapped his hand on the table. ‘Of course! It was Aylewood. How could I forget? His son won the archery tournament five
years in a row.’ He laughed. ‘We hated that boy like poison. He was a good enough lad, as I recall, but something of a loner. We always thought he cheated, but we could never prove
it.’

‘So he might be the silversmith I’m looking for?’

‘Mmm?’ replied Hepburn, lost in the past. ‘Oh, no. Not him.’ He shifted uneasily under the baleful eye of his guest, whose temper he was beginning to find irksome.
‘No, the poor man died some years back, drowned in a spate while he was fishing for pearls. No, it’s most likely his brother you’re looking for. Edward, I think his name was.
Hopeless with a bow and arrow, but fingers nimble as a spider’s legs. Used to make nets and lace for the ladies’ headdresses. I suppose he might have gone into silverwork.’

Gabriel’s smile fooled neither of them. ‘And if you dig deep into your memory, sir, might you recall where this man lived?’

‘Jeddart,’ said Hepburn, his eyes narrowing, and his voice cold. ‘I don’t know what you want with him, but if I were you, I’d set out now. It’s a long ride
across the moors. And you’d better watch out for the bogs. They’re more treacherous than the Armstrongs or the Taylors, and believe me, that’s saying something.’ He stood,
and held out his hand in farewell with a smile as practised and false as the courtier’s.

By the time the snow came, Gabriel had crossed the highest moorland. Had it arrived earlier he would have been in trouble, for even in full daylight the way across the heath was difficult, the
path meandering into swampy marsh, or snaking into gullies, when it had seemed to promise firm, flat land. Several times he had been obliged to retrace the path, and find another.

Yet even though he was off the hill-top when the blizzard began, Gabriel was unnerved. The snow flew at him as if it held a grudge, and his world was reduced to a tunnel of relentless driving
white. His horse snorted and stamped, before settling into a stoical trudge, his forehead and mane quickly caked in snow.

The remaining miles to Jeddart were a torment, the stallion stumbling and slithering in the deepening drifts, the courtier’s face and hands numb from cold, and pain throbbing in his arm.
Had he spied a hovel where he could have taken shelter, he would have battered down its door, but he could see barely a hand’s reach in front of his nose, and any houses he passed were
hidden, for all they might be only a few yards away. Once he caught the smell of welcoming woodsmoke. He stopped, sniffing the air. The cottage was so close he could almost hear the crackling of
the fire, but he dared not leave the path. Fixing his thoughts on reaching the town before nightfall, he rode on.

He arrived in Jeddart late that evening. As he descended from the woodlands to the streets, he could not see much of the place, though the lamp-lit abbey soared above him as he passed. The torch
over its gateway picked out a cowed, whitened figure more ice than blood, the only one abroad at this hour.

It took The Lion’s finest claret and roasted fowl and a seat by its roaring fire to thaw the chill in the courtier’s bones, and even then he went to bed shivering. By the next
morning he was snuffling with a head cold, and sneezing so loudly he sent the cat flying out of the taproom as if a bulldog was at its heels.

From his bedroom window he looked out across the blanketed town. Benoit, he sensed, was very close. He smiled. He could afford to wait another day. Nobody would travel in this weather. Meanwhile
he would make some enquiries.

The snow fell all that day, and the next. Gabriel nursed his cold with hot honeyed wine, and sat by the taproom fire. The town was hushed, going about its business as if silenced by a gag. He
made only one foray, and returned with the expression of one whose troubles have been lifted. The serving maid assumed he had been to confession, and smiled to think of his shriven soul.

The woman he had been visiting was not smiling. She lay unconscious on her earthen floor, her bottles and jars smashed into pieces around her, their contents soaking her skirts.

The healer had not expected any customers in such weather. Like a true gentleman, her visitor had stamped the snow off his boots before stepping into the hovel, where he swept off his hat. With
interest he surveyed the herbs hanging from the rafters, the jars that lined the walls. As he did so she eyed his riding boots, his lined cape, the fur stole around his throat. She had never served
anyone so grand.

‘Is it something for yerself, sir?’ she asked, hobbling to her shelves. ‘Something for yer sore throat, perhaps?’

‘No,’ he said, ‘nothing like that. I’m trying to find someone I believe you may have treated.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘Aye?’

‘A young man, stabbed in the stomach by some scoundrel who pounced on him on the highway. A sturdy-looking lad with a poor, pocked skin.’

The old woman’s eyes were glassy. ‘I’ve had no patient of that kind, son,’ she said, her hands shaking as she plucked at her shawl. ‘I dinnae deal wi’
anything serious these days. It’s mostly snivels and rashes.’

Gabriel advanced on her, so close she could smell the wine on his breath. ‘I hear otherwise, my good woman. The finest of her kind, they told me. Nothing she won’t turn her hand to.
To listen to your admirers, you have powers enough to raise the dead.’

He took her by the wrist. ‘So I will ask you one more time. Have you had a man like that in your care of late?’

She was trembling so violently Gabriel could almost hear her joints rattling, but she looked him in the eye and shook her head. His hand moved to her throat. Under his fingers her swallowing
gullet felt like a sparrow squeezed in a fist. She was gobbling for air, her eyes turning bloodshot when finally she nodded.

He let her go, and she bent over, struggling for breath. When she could speak, she was hoarse. ‘He wis at Aylewood’s house by the chapel, on the road outae Old Jeddart. I dinnae ken
if he’ll still be there, though, it wis some weeks back.’ She held out her hands, warding Gabriel off, but he had her by the arms. She whimpered. ‘Tell no-one I have been here, or
else I’ll be back,’ he said, before flinging her across the room, where she landed with a snap of bones.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

5 November 1513

Snow rose around the silversmith’s cottage, a frozen noose that held them fast. For two days Louise watched it tumble, as if the sky was a bottomless sack emptied over
their heads. Her fingers twitched with anxiety. Crozier and Tom took turns keeping watch. Benoit offered to take his share, but did not take offence when they refused, and Louise sensed his relief.
‘You must rest,’ said Tom, ‘ahead of the ride. We two don’t need much sleep anyway.’ His brother gave a rough laugh, recalling the times – some of them recent
– when Tom could not be dragged from his bed by anything less than the threat of a skelping.

These drawn-out hours of perpetual twilight gave Louise time with her brother, in which they chattered, without drawing breath, as they always had. Benoit was astonished at how grown-up his
little sister had become. For her part, she found him greatly changed too, less sure, but more settled. His eyes followed Ella wherever she went, and when she was close he was calmer. Despite the
trouble their dangerous alliance had caused, he had chosen well. Shy as she was, Ella had a spirit to match his.

Yet the joy of finding her brother was tempered by fear of what lay ahead. Louise pictured Gabriel making his remorseless way towards them, plodding black-cloaked on his black horse through the
falling snow, the very eye of the storm.

On their second night in the cottage, when Crozier and she lay blanketed on the floor by the fire, and Tom kept watch by the shutters, she could not sleep for thinking what kind of man she had
been duped by. She had not for a moment questioned the courtier’s affection, or his lightning fast courtship. For a lord of his standing, she now realised, a girl like her could at best have
hoped to be his mistress. Had that been what he was offering all along? She clenched her fists. What else could it have been?