Dacre's War (19 page)

No knee was bowed when the duke was led in, no handshake proffered. The mistress of the house folded her arms over her drab plaid shawl and did not smile. Her dog made as if to sniff out the strangers, but with a click of her tongue the beast was kept in its place. The duke was grateful the animal was given no chance to slaver on his boots.

Crozier asked the regent his business. Inclining his head, the duke suggested they might sit while he explained it, and indicated that refreshment would not go amiss. What was brought from the kitchens confirmed his suspicions that he was in the back of beyond, where nothing had changed since Merlin’s day.

Chewing dry bread and herrings whose sousing had barely softened their bones, Albany sipped a ditchwater ale and forced a smile onto his face. ‘I need your help,’ he began, then paused, as if arrested. Never before in his life had he spoken those words.

Louise was to relive that morning often in the months that followed. At the time she could not be aware it would prove to be the hinge on which her life turned, yet even as the regent and Crozier talked there was a crackle in the air, a sense of unreality that set this day apart. All present knew that whatever the outcome, things were set to change.

At first, Crozier barely spoke. Flint-eyed, he listened as Albany explained his visit. The pair were seated side by side at the head of the long pine table, while the regent’s retinue and the Crozier clan stood to attention at their back, each side watching their lord as a hawk does its handler.

Louise alone could read her husband’s expression. While the regent talked, sentences tumbling out in such profusion it seemed he hoped to drown his listeners in words, Crozier’s mind was at work. When finally Albany wound up his preamble, his digressions, his clever allusions and witty asides, he came to the point. Would the borderer, he asked, bring his men to battle against Dacre? He would make it worth his while.

The great hall hushed. Old Crozier’s fingers trembled as he waited for Adam’s reply. Tom’s eyes narrowed, though he chewed a feathered grass and seemed indifferent to whatever was being said. Benoit stood as if on guard, legs planted, hands clenched. Only the wolf uttered a sound, whimpering in his sleep by the hearth.

The regent’s plea made, he too was at last silent, though his chest rose and fell as he watched his host, trying to anticipate his answer. Crozier’s face said nothing, but while the hall waited for him to speak, he was calculating how far this perfumed visitor could be trusted. Not very, was his estimation. Men like Albany were true to none but themselves. Today he was asking Crozier to be his ally, but as soon as their countries were reconciled, Albany and Dacre might sit at the same table playing cards, or share a day’s fishing on the Tweed. Nothing men like these did would shock Crozier. One thing only he knew for sure: they hated him and his kind. Nothing but desperation could have brought this man to his gates. The borderer lowered his eyes, to hide a flash of calculation. That being the case, he might find terms that would be to the clan’s advantage.

Albany was beginning to wonder if Crozier was slow-witted, or had merely been struck dumb, when finally he leaned forward. ‘What you suggest,’ he said, ‘is impossible. You flatter our clan with your confidence in our powers, but you dangerously underestimate the baron. Dacre cannot be beaten by force. He has thousands of men to call on, not just in the north.’ He sat back, staring so intently at the regent that the Frenchman felt his face grow warm. It was as if the borderer was trying to see into his soul.

‘So you will not help me, then?’ he said, his voice hardening with disappointment.

Crozier shook his head. ‘I suggest, instead, that you help me.’

The regent looked astonished.
‘I
assist
you
?’

Crozier’s mouth twisted in the semblance of a smile. ‘The Croziers will never work for the crown. As you will have been warned, we’re loyal to none but ourselves. Your very presence here makes the stones weep, so unwelcome is the court in these parts.’

There was a shifting of boots behind him as Albany’s men tensed, reaching for their hilts. Ignoring them, Adam raised a hand. ‘Have your men sent out of the hall. Mine too will leave.’ At his command, the clan filed out, all but Louise, whom he gestured to sit beside him on the bench. Unnoticed, the wolf stayed by the fire, eyes closed but tail thumping.

It looked as if the regent would object. His retinue were on the point of drawing their swords, fearing an ambush, when he sighed. ‘So be it.’ Raising his voice, he ordered his soldiers to leave. ‘Await me in the courtyard,’ he said, shaking his head at Eglinton, who looked as if he would protest. ‘This man is well aware of the consequences if he plays foul. I trust him. Clear the room.’

When only Crozier, his wife and Albany were left, the borderer leaned back, stretching his legs as if to straighten his thoughts.

‘I believe we can serve each other’s purpose. Already I have Lord Dacre in my sights, and plan to bring him down. My men and I have lately seen off one threat, a corrupt old henchman of his who learned what we are doing, but I cannot afford to run another such risk. That one nearly proved our undoing. Even so, I am slowly tightening a net around Dacre. With your help I can have him removed from his position far more swiftly, and see the north rid of its guard dog. That brings you a step closer to putting Henry in his place, and setting your court’s affairs on a steady course. A more peaceful Scotland is in all our interests, even those of us out here, whose lives are never quiet.’

The regent’s eyes widened with interest, but he remained thirled to the prospect of battle. ‘That may be true, but I intend to take the Scots over the border, to destroy Dacre’s castles, empty his vaults, and sue Henry for peace – or his throne. That is my way, even if it is not yours.’

Crozier shrugged. ‘I wish you success. Yet whatever the outcome, my business with Dacre will still work to your advantage. In the event of peace, his removal will further undermine Henry. Should you fail, which is more likely, his deposing will be invaluable. He is Henry’s eyes and ears in the borders. Without him, the king will be blind and deaf.’

Albany waved a glittering hand for him to continue. As plain in his speech as the regent was florid, Crozier described his need for denouncers, a band of ill-wishers who would lay their grievances against Dacre before the king. In doing so, he felt a stirring of hope that the game might at last begin to go his way. In that moment he recognised that, until this day, he had known, but never acknowledged, that his venture was all but doomed.

At Louise’s bidding, fresh food and drink was brought by the servants, this time from the kitchen and not the guards’ cellar. Crozier nearly laughed to see the regent sip with caution at his golden ale, and then, with relief, down it like a goose swallowing grain, his throat working hard to slake his thirst. Louise said nothing, but watched as if mesmerised by the regent’s glister. Beneath her wide-eyed admiration she took his measure, and found nothing she liked.

The conversation continued for an hour, and then another. By the time morning had turned into afternoon, Albany had promised an introduction for Crozier to some of the most powerful names in the English north. ‘With my imprimatur, a simple letter will gain you the entry and the outcome you desire.’

Louise left to fetch paper, pen, and candle. ‘The first you must approach is Lord Foulberry of Foulberry,’ he said when she returned, drawing the paper towards him. Glancing up, he looked for recognition in Crozier’s face, but there was none. ‘I advise you not to let him know his fame has not reached this far. He is a proud man.’

His eyes fell on Louise, then flickered back to his host. ‘Foulberry’s lands are on the Solway. He can muster two hundred horsemen, and a small fleet of ships. He has a French wife whose connections are almost as important as his. He is a trusted member of the privy council; she of one of the richest families in the old Norman lands near Cherbourg. Foulberry has long loathed Dacre. I can assure you that, knowing you petition him with my blessing, he will open the door to many who would wish to denounce Dacre, in a way none other in these parts ever could.’

With a practised flourish, he scrawled a note to Foulberry, sprinkled sand upon it, and blew it clean. ‘Here,’ he said, showing Crozier its contents. Crozier nodded, and the letter was folded in half, and half again.

A candle was lit, hot wax dripped onto the parchment, and the regent’s signet ring was pressed deep into the scarlet gout, so red and soft it might have been a courtesan’s pout. Brightened by the flame, Albany’s skin glowed as if it too were wax. He lowered his voice. ‘But there is something more I may be able to do for you.’ Louise watched as his pupils turned velvet, and malice hardened his face. ‘It is just possible that I could put my hands on letters – the most damaging letters imaginable – that, if read by the king, would condemn Dacre to the Tower.’

‘Letters from Dacre?’ asked Louise, unable to keep silent. He looked at her, as if in pity.

‘I cannot be certain, madame. Indeed, the letters may no longer exist. I have merely heard tell of them.’ He examined his lace cuffs, as if already he had said too much. ‘But if they can be found, and their owner persuaded to part with them, they could prove useful to our cause. Decidedly so.’

‘You know where to find them?’ asked Crozier.

‘I have a fair idea, but offer no guarantee. It seems more likely they have been destroyed, and yet . . .’ The regent spread his hands in apology, and reached for his gauntlets. ‘Now that our deal has been struck, I will make it my business to discover if they have survived, and if so, attempt to acquire them. It will not be easy. It may not even be possible. But if – if – I manage this, I will inform you immediately. That will be a happy day, for all of us.’

He smiled as he stood and held out his hand. Crozier grasped it, and as their eyes met, each knew he had made a pact he had never before thought possible, or wise.

Long after the regent’s party had left, the letter lay untouched. Late into the night Crozier, Louise, Tom and Benoit sat round the table talking, seeming always to ignore, yet never for a second forgetting, the square of parchment with its imperious stamp. It brought with it the smell of the court, an unwelcome intrusion from a world they mistrusted and feared. And yet, as Crozier was obliged to admit, it represented his best, perhaps his only hope of seeing Dacre defeated. When eventually they retired to their beds, he stuffed the missive into one of the hunting horns by the fireplace, and plugged it with moss. He did not want it near them while they slept.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

December 1523

Leaning against the wall by the cellar door, chewing a wad of salt beef, Oliver Barton had watched the regent and Crozier conferring. Elbowed to the back of the group, the sailor had caught only snatches of the conversation before the hall was cleared, but there was no mistaking that by the time the regent’s retinue left an alliance of sorts between Albany and Crozier had been agreed, and that Dacre’s downfall was the knot that bound them. Before the regent’s party had reached the mouth of the valley, the clan had gathered in the great hall. Barton hovered by the fire, cleaning his gutting knife with a pocketful of grass.

Little, however, was said within his hearing. He had been two months at the keep, and nobody liked his presence. Maintaining their distance as if he were a rotting fish, their lack of trust was plain. Even Hob, who had no bad word for anyone, would do no more than nod when the sailor passed. The place beside him at dinner sat empty, the clan preferring to stand as they spooned their broth than brush elbows with him. Thus, that afternoon, when Tom saw him loitering at the edge of the hall, his rope of hair lying like a caul around his neck, he sent him outdoors, to do a shift on the walls.

It made no difference to Barton. Untroubled – he had suffered far worse in his time – he kept his thoughts to himself, and made sure he earned his keep in the fields and on sentry patrol. Unheated and unfriendly as it was, Crozier’s Keep was better than gaol and the prospect of the gallows. At night he slept with a clear conscience and a full stomach, and dreamed of better times ahead.

For a man such as Barton, looking beyond tomorrow was a new sensation. As long as he could remember he had lived for the day, not thinking about what the morning would bring. The conditions of his release from Edinburgh’s gaol had been simple, yet he chafed at the obligation that now lay upon him. The price for his escape from the noose was too high, the offer of money miserly, and the job itself tedious for one who enjoyed the thrill of the chase on the high seas, as well as its spoils. His plan – perhaps the first of his life – was to follow orders for a few weeks, then disappear from sight. Nobody, not even the all-powerful Lord Dacre himself, would be able to find him once he’d set sail for France, or Ireland, or Spain, or wherever a ship would take him.

Knowing his present situation would not last for long, he remained vigilant. A few days after the regent’s visit, when his night watch came to an end, he did not make for his bed, but for the stables instead. Tiptoeing in, he chose a young, sturdy horse, fit for a long ride. Binding its hoofs in sacking, he led it into the yard, a fistful of oats and a drink at the trough keeping it quiet. In the loft above the stalls, Hob slept on, undisturbed.

The keep was not awake, the kitchen fires so newly lit their smoke had not yet reached the sky. Black as an unswept chimney, the morning dark clung to him. Waiting for the new watch to pass beyond the gate tower, he hurried under the arch, and out into the woods. Beyond the walls the valley lay cold and quiet. Drawing his hood low, he climbed into the saddle, and set off down the track.

Afternoon was fading when Harbottle came into sight, the lamps on its ramparts glimmering gold. Kicking his horse into a canter, Barton rode off the hills, and met the gatekeepers with a flurry of earth and an imperious shout.

It was Blackbird who led him into the castle. Walking ahead of the sailor, whose weapons had been left at the gate, he cast no word or smile on him. Distaste curled his lip, and he put a reassuring hand to the knife in his belt, fingering its heavy hilt. At the door of the hall, he showed the visitor in with a bow, closing the doors but standing by them, in case his lordship called.

Seated before the fire, Dacre received Barton alone. The sailor bent his head in greeting, but there was nothing of the serf about his stance. He had the stare of a rogue, a man who recognises no authority, nor bounds. A frown deepened the crease between the baron’s eyes. He had dealt with more criminals than a high court judge, and he knew all the shapes they came in. Barton, he guessed, was one of the worst: sly, cruel, and clever. He suppressed a shudder. In his time he had employed many such men. One more could do no harm.

He waved Barton to the settle by the hearth. ‘I wouldnae say no to a mouthful of ale,’ the sailor said as he spread his legs towards the fire. ‘Nor a bite to warm my stomach.’

Gracelessly, the baron poured him a mug. ‘Ye can eat all you like when we have talked,’ he said, as the sailor gulped down the draught, ‘but first I need to know what news you bring me.’

Barton stifled a belch, and held the mug out for more. When that was drained, he slapped the tankard on the floor, and looked the baron in the eye. ‘Crozier’s your enemy, that’s for sure.’

‘So much I already knew,’ said the baron, standing before him, a tree of a man to this stunted shrub, as if to remind him of the gulf between their stations.

‘Ye have many, I am sure,’ the sailor agreed. ‘All powerful men do. But what I saw this week could mean trouble. On his own, I doubt Crozier could do you much harm, but he had a visitor on Thursday who could hurt ye sair.’

The baron’s silence would have unnerved a less confident man, but Barton took his time before continuing, picking a burr from his sleeve, and looking into the flames as if for a reminder of what he had come to tell.

He nodded, though Dacre had not spoken. ‘It was the regent, the Duke of Albany. And a right peacock he is too, painted and powdered and dressed like a lass, with lace at his neck and his cuffs.’ He snickered. ‘I tell ye, it takes some guts to traipse around the borders rigged out like that.’

A click of exasperation from the baron made him look up, and he continued. ‘That’s no important, of course. But he stayed half a day, in private parlay with Crozier. The only part of the discussion I heard was that Albany wanted him to raise his men against you.’

‘What did Crozier say to that?’

‘Well, he refused outright.’ Barton sounded disappointed. ‘Said his family would have no dealings with the crown. After that, everyone was sent out of the hall. But when the Regent left, they spoke amicably to each other. I’d say they had reached terms.’

The baron turned to stare into the fire, fisting a hand in his palm. ‘So they have made some agreement.’

‘That’s my understanding. I don’t know what it is, but whatever the pact, it’s intended to bring your ruin.’

Dacre placed his hands on the chimneybreast and stared into the flames, fine dust drizzling from under his grip as he sandpapered the stone. The air around the sailor grew cool without the fire’s blaze, until at last the baron turned. ‘Albany is a weak man, leading a country more puny still.’ He laughed. ‘He was on the brink of taking Carlisle, and I talked him out of it. There we were, my men lined up behind me, facing his army, so nervy their horses twitched as if they were covered in flies. Most likely I need not have bothered. His men would no doubt have fled before they reached the city walls. But I enjoyed the showdown. It was like a scene from my old jousting days. It amused me.’

Barton eyed him, unsure of this new mood. ‘It didnae seem to me that there was anything droll about the regent’s plans. It’s yer head he wants, stuck on a spike.’

Dacre’s face was as cold as he found Barton’s. ‘I am sure he does. But I find it strange that he has joined forces with Crozier. One is a fleabitten commoner, the other one step from the throne.’

He kneaded his reddened palms. ‘The border chief is playing deep. He’ll be out of his depth with the old king’s cousin. I wonder if either side knows what he’s doing.’ He was talking more to himself than to Barton. ‘But is there anything to fear from Crozier? Was he behind the Jedburgh stampede, or is he an opportunist, latching onto a better man’s campaign?’ He shook his head. ‘Whatever the truth of it, I doubt he, or Albany, will do me much damage. Nobody has yet.’

He raised his head, and stared at an arrow-slit window, from which day had fled. His voice was flat, its bombast gone. ‘But I am now warned, and it would be foolish to ignore what you have told me. None of my other spies has brought me anything from the Fenwicks or the Ridleys, though their reports arrive almost daily. For all their news – and yours – I still do not know who drove those horses over the cliffs.’ He sighed, and spoke with obvious reluctance. ‘Ye have done well to bring me this, and I thank ye.’ He dug a hand into his jerkin, pulled out a small purse and dropped it in the sailor’s lap. ‘As agreed at the outset, you’ll be paid well for all your reports. For now, it is best ye remain at the keep. If there are any serious developments, I need to be told.’

Ignoring the unspoken injunction to be gone, Barton sat where he was. Dacre stared at him. When it was plain the informant had more to say, he took a step closer. ‘This fee is not enough?’

Barton had not touched the purse, which lay where it had fallen on his stained hose. ‘First, the food ye promised me, sir. I’ve eaten nothing since midnight past.’

‘Ye’ll be well fed from our kitchen, I assure you. And you can sleep in the barracks, where it’s warm.’ The baron could not hide his irritation. ‘But there’s something more?’

Barton nodded. ‘However much giltsilver is packed into this thimble it’s no enough, when you consider the dangers I face every day.’

‘Ye were in worse danger in the castle gaol, my man. Whatever price ye put on your life, you’d still be in my debt, even if this purse was empty.’

Barton’s tongue ran over his lips. ‘Our arrangement, as I recall the queen making clear at the outset, was for you to offer some reasonable recompense for my efforts. That’s all I’m asking. And this poxy wee bag does not seem reasonable to me.’

‘Ye think they suspect you?’ the baron asked, as if he had not spoken.

‘They dinnae trust me, and do not hide the fact. Me being gone overnight is sure to deepen their suspicions.’

‘A man like you is used to lying, are ye not?’

‘Aye, but there’s a hundred of them to one of me. It’s no what ye’d call a comfortable situation.’

‘More comfortable, surely, than awaiting the hangman’s knot. A degrading end that would have been, for one such as you.’

The baron spoke with disdain, but Barton did not flinch. ‘I’d have found a way out of the gaol long afore that day. The dowager queen set me free as if I was a slater she’d found in her slipper. Nae doubt she thought I should be eternally grateful she had saved me from the dungeons, and from death. But like the louse I am, I’d have found a crack to squeeze through and make my escape without anyone’s help, dinnae ye fear.’

Dacre looked at the set of his mouth, the strength in his wrists, the unlit chill of his eyes, and found he did not doubt it.

He turned and called for Blackbird. The butler entered, and the pair conferred. Blackbird’s soft boots hurried out, and in the time it took him to fill another purse no word was spoken in the hall. Untroubled, Barton sat with his hands on his knees, staring at the rafters.

A figure passed the open doors. ‘Father?’ said Joan, seeing him standing as if frozen in place. She came towards him and he moved to stand between her and his visitor, but Joan stepped aside and saw the sailor, a faint smile on his face as he traced the stains of soot and damp on Harbottle’s eaves.

‘Be gone, girl, this instant!’ hissed the baron, a hand in the small of her back. Distracted, Barton shifted on the settle and caught sight of Joan, her mud-spattered skirts, and the sulky frown beneath her crooked wimple.

‘Of course, Father,’ she said, bobbing her knee, but Barton was not fooled. This was a girl who did as she wished. Before the baron turned to catch him staring at his daughter, the sailor had fixed his gaze on high once more.