Dacre's War (21 page)

Foulberry, moving almost at a trot, was oblivious of his ill-taught boys as he led them to his private chamber, off the great hall. The panelling was made from leather squares, stitched together like a quilt, and while the effect was sombre it offered such protection against draughts that the room was warm as a bread oven.

Her ladyship swept in ahead of Foulberry, her periwinkle skirts bringing a splash of colour to the dull chamber. Benoit squeezed in last, conscious of his size in this cramped space, although he was thinning by the week. Tom kept by his side, watching the Foulberrys. He had not liked her ladyship’s proffered hand, nor Crozier’s chivalrous bow. Nobody was less likely to fawn than his brother, and the act made him suspicious.

Perched on benches, their swords scraping the floor, the borderers gulped the hot wine her ladyship offered, finishing their mugs before Foulberry had done more than wet his lips. ‘We have news for you,’ said his lordship, nodding to his wife to summon more wine. ‘Most interesting news, most unexpected.’

Pausing only while fresh mugs were poured, he continued. ‘Selby’s informant, at Harbottle Castle, has been a fount of secret tales.’ A cold smile crossed his face. ‘Not all in Dacre’s inner circle are content, it seems. None dares break ranks, because they fear him too much, but from some words dropped in the servants’ quarters, the Vice Warden, William Eure, is restless. His loyalty, it would appear, is faltering.’

Isabella Foulberry cleared her throat. ‘Ambitious is surely the word you seek, my lord. It is plain he has an eye on Dacre’s post.’

‘Quite so.’ Foulberry looked over his desk at the borderers. ‘Her ladyship is most astute. Always has been, since the day she agreed to wed me.’ He shot her a teasing glance, but his wife had lowered her eyes, fingers pleating her woollen skirts. Crozier doubted it was shyness that made her hide her thoughts.

Sipping his wine, Foulberry continued. ‘Whatever the motives, Eure’s disaffection could prove most useful for us. Word is he does not wholly approve of Dacre’s methods. A recent raid under Sly Armstrong’s command left him sickened, they say.’

‘What happened?’ asked Crozier.

‘I am not entirely clear,’ his lordship replied, ‘but it would seem that Dacre was making an example of a tenant who had won his case in his court for damages against his lands and stock. Although a highland band of thieves was the guilty party, it was Dacre who was obliged to pay the recompense. Some new edict from the king, I believe. But Dacre did not want to oblige.’ He picked a speck of dirt from beneath a fingernail. ‘So he set the Armstrongs on the plaintiff and his family. It took place around Ridpath, in upper Redesdale. A nasty business.’

‘Scumfishing?’ Crozier guessed.

Foulberry nodded. ‘The Armstrongs’ favourite tactic but not, it would seem, to William Eure’s taste. It revolts him.’ He pushed his chair further from the table, and spread his hands on his ample stomach. ‘Quite how he has held on to that post so long if he is squeamish is a miracle.’

‘It is an unspeakably beastly deed,’ murmured Isabella. ‘One cannot condemn him for his scruples.’

She glanced at Crozier, who was looking severe, though whether at the talk of people slowly cooked alive in their houses, the lit straw around their homes smoking them like eels, or merely at Foulberry’s news, was impossible to tell.

There was a pause before Crozier responded. ‘If Eure is willing to stand out against Dacre he has a stronger stomach than most.’

‘Maybe I malign him; perhaps I am unjust.’ Foulberry raised a hand in appeasement. ‘It is just that I find it strange a man from that quarter drawing a line at one particular act of barbarity, when he and his associates have committed every cruelty imaginable. His hands, every bit as much as Armstrong’s or Dacre’s, are soaked in blood.’

Tom leaned forward, his tone abrupt. ‘Does the king trust Eure as he does Dacre?’

Foulberry raised his eyebrows, as if a child had spoken, unbidden. ‘Why yes, I believe he does,’ he replied, sounding a little surprised. ‘Possibly he places more faith in him now than in the baron, as rumours fly about Dacre’s affairs.’

Crozier looked at Tom and Benoit, and the three nodded in private agreement. The borderer turned back to Foulberry. ‘We couldn’t hope for better than to turn Eure to our cause, and have him lay before the king all the charges we gather against Dacre. For his deputy to lead the attack would surely seal his fate. But for me to approach Eure while all this is pure speculation and guesswork . . .’ He broke off, shaking his head. ‘Should we be wrong, and Eure still loyal, that would condemn me and my kin to the scaffold.’

Tom spoke again: ‘Forgive us, my lord, but we have only your word that Eure might be persuaded to become our ally. We need more than that before we can act.’

‘But of course.’ Foulberry was unperturbed by the borderers’ suspicion. He looked at his wife, who inclined her head at their guests.

‘We understand your caution,’ she said. ‘After all, a month ago we were enemies too, or believed we were.’ She stroked her fox fur, her hand sweeping back and back again so that its glass eyes caught the light as if it were awakening. As the rhythmic gesture continued, without pause, Benoit began to feel queasy. He looked away.

‘What we propose,’ said Foulberry, ‘is that we invite Eure to visit.’ Crozier began to speak, but his lordship anticipated him. ‘No, sir, have no fear. You would not be present. Not at that encounter, at least.’ His voice softened. ‘As you can understand, it is almost as dangerous for us to show our hand as for you. We must tread with extreme caution. A wrong step will bring Dacre’s troops down on our heads, which would next be seen on Henry’s block. No, no, gentlemen, we too must be careful.’

‘Most careful,’ echoed Isabella, continuing to caress the fox, whose head had slipped off her shoulder, to reveal the low cut of her gown.

Beyond the chamber’s narrow window, daylight already seemed to be fading, though the afternoon was young. The fire crackled, and the wine and warmth were making Benoit’s eyelids droop. ‘There is much else to discuss,’ said Crozier tersely, misliking the torpor that had crept into the room. Catching his meaning, Isabella rose, gathering her stole about her.

‘I will have a good dinner prepared while you and my lord confer. After that, you must spend the night. You need to leave at first light and make good headway before the weather closes in.’

Tom put out a hand and tried to catch his brother’s sleeve, but Crozier had risen and stepped beyond his reach. He bowed to Isabella. ‘That’s most generous of you, ma’am. We would be grateful to accept.’ Benoit’s stomach gave a rumble of approval as Isabella picked up her skirts and left. Tom’s face darkened, to match the winter sky.

While the smell of roasting fowl and kettled fish escaped from the kitchen, the men drank and talked. Crozier reported the knights and farmers who had now agreed to put their names to any just indictment of the Warden General, knowing Foulberry was at the helm. There were presently seven, including Foulberry, all from ancient families whom Henry would respect: Lord Ogle, Ellarcar the chamberlain, Thomas Grayson and Malcolm Ridley, each of whom had also promised the aid of others they knew would support this cause, and Wetherington and Ratcliffe. All were respectable, and none coveted Dacre’s position. Yet, as they deliberated the merits of these allies, there was not one of them who was unaware that seven was few against the forces Dacre could muster. A man of his guile might swat away any charges they laid against him, and convince the king that his accusers, and not he, were the traitors.

‘We must hope that Henry is already tiring of him,’ said Foulberry, unbuttoning his woollen waistcoat and pushing his chair an inch farther from the glowing logs.

‘This is too risky a business to leave to hope,’ said Crozier. ‘We must lay before the king sufficient evidence to be sure that even if he is besotted with Dacre, and loves him as if he were his wife, he would have no choice but to act. The burden of proof lies with us, and I intend to make sure we throw everything there is at Dacre so that even he, snake that he is, cannot slither out of trouble this time.’ Frowning at the fire, he lapsed into silence.

The summons to dinner brought these gloomy deliberations to an end. A rich meal awaited them in the great hall, so many dishes laid before them that the evening was well advanced before the board was cleared and a final tumbler of sack placed before each man. Foulberry ate as if leading a charge, but his wife did no more than pick at her plate. It was no wonder she was so slender, thought Tom, who spoke little and drank less. More than once he saw her ladyship look down the table at his brother as if hoping for a glance, but Crozier was busy with his spoon, or engaged with his lordship, and appeared unaware of her presence.

By the time they made for their bedchambers, each in a room of his own, snow had begun to fall. Benoit put a hand out of the window, the night’s touch welcome after the heat of the hall. Leaving the shutters pinned back he got into bed, fully dressed, his sword at his side. All three did the same. Tom and Benoit were soon asleep, but Crozier lay awake, staring into the dark and listening to the wind gusting around the castle, uncomfortably conscious of the dangers they ran under this roof and in this country.

At first light the three gathered in Crozier’s room and looked out upon a veiled, hidden land. Beyond the window fields of white lay beneath a chain mail curtain of falling snow that smothered the country in silence. The men said nothing, but a line between Crozier’s eyes spoke for them all.

Lady Foulberry met them in the great hall, holding a candle that flickered over the gold in her brocade nightgown, a garment that for once was tied to the neck. Uncapped, her hair fell in a dark plait over her shoulder. ‘How bad is it?’ she asked.

‘The snow’s too heavy to travel,’ said Tom. ‘Until it stops we can’t be sure how deep it lies, but it would be madness to set out in this. Already the wind is rising. It’ll soon be a blizzard.’

Isabella looked grave, her eyes not leaving Crozier’s face, though he said nothing.

‘I will go to the stables,’ said Benoit, to break the silence, ‘make sure the horses are fine.’

‘No need,’ said Crozier, putting out a hand to restrain him. ‘They will be well looked after, never you fear.’ He turned back to Isabella, and cleared his throat. ‘It would appear we will be your guests for more than a night, my lady. I hope that is not too inconvenient. Be assured, we’ll leave as soon as possible.’

She smiled as if he had spoken nonsense. ‘It will be not the slightest trouble. Given the service you offer this family, his lordship and I consider you and your men as close as kin. It will be a pleasure to have your company.’

From the hall behind her came the sound of small feet, and her ladyship’s sons appeared at her side. They were already clutching their wooden swords, ready for the fray. A smile broke out across Crozier’s face and he looked at the older boy, who had pointed his blade at the borderer’s heart.

‘If we are to be here for a time, let’s make good use of it,’ he said, pulling out his dagger, and with a flick of his wrist he sent the child’s sword flying into the air. He caught it high above the boy’s head. ‘At the very least, lad, I can teach you how to fight.’ Sheathing his knife, he handed him the sword. With a sulky look the boy took it and hid it behind his back. Only when he saw his mother’s smile did his pout disappear, and he let out a laugh. ‘On guard!’ he cried, and advanced on Crozier, sword pointed this time at his gizzard.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The borderers were Lord Foulberry’s guests for twelve never-ending nights. When the blizzards had passed, and the snows ceased, all paths were blocked. A bitter cold set in, and held its breath. Trees snapped like twigs under the weight of snow, crashing unseen in the depths of the forest and setting off a pattering of snow from the shaken boughs around them. Birds fell lifeless out of the sky, ducks were trapped in glazen ponds, and in the meanest hovels peasants went to sleep never to waken again.

Out on the castle walls, Foulberry’s guards stamped their feet and held their hands to the brazier, but still a few got frostbite. Archers came back empty-handed from the hunt, the river’s fish were safe beneath a frozen lid, and no boats dared brave the sea under skies so forbidding. The smokehouse and the cellar’s stores of salted beef were plundered, and a permanent watch was put on the castle well, to stir it free of ice.

Each day Crozier opened his shutters, praying for a thaw that would allow them to be gone. The morning he woke to a slither of slush off the roof his heart lifted, but it was several more days before it was safe to leave. Those hours dragged, nerves fraying, and tempers with them. Though Adam was polite to his hosts, with Tom and Benoit he was curt.

When eventually they set off, the way was treacherous still. Benoit’s horse sprained a fetlock, with many trudging miles to cover before it could be stabled at a hostler’s inn and allowed to rest. By the time the three reached the keep, the brothers were tired and taciturn, Crozier brooding on the fact that the best part of a month had been lost to the snows. Who knew what Dacre had been plotting while they were fretting before Foulberry’s fires?

Louise feared that Crozier had brought the winter home with him. The confident man who had ridden off had not returned. In his place was a husband whose thoughts were far away. Harsh in look and all but silent, he was distant and unheeding.

In the days that followed Tom too was quiet, his face set as if hardened by the cold. only Benoit was himself, describing to all who would listen the sumptuous castle where they had stayed. Louise’s eyes widened as he painted a picture of elegance, display and comfort unheard of except at court.

When he and Ella were alone, he handed his wife a packet wrapped in linen and tied with a ribbon of bayleaves. ‘What’s this?’ she asked, finding a small wooden box filled with scented wax.

‘Her ladyship’s own recipe,’ said Benoit. Ella ran a finger over the wax, releasing the scent of primroses. ‘She has her own distillery,’ he went on, ‘this poky wee room in the cellars, where she makes perfumed waters and salves. She gied me this for you.’ With a wide smile Ella rubbed the wax onto her lips, making them glisten, though no more brightly than her husband’s eyes at the sight of her pleasure.

Crozier brought Louise no such gift. Isabella had offered him a vial of rosewater for her, but he had shaken his head. ‘She would not appreciate it, my lady,’ he said. ‘She is a country girl, very different from you.’

Tom had looked up, startled at the roughness of his tone. Unconcerned, Isabella crossed the hall in a swirl of skirts, and gave it instead to Tom, ‘for the love of your life, young man. I doubt there’s a woman in these lands who would not enjoy its scent. Even my scullery maids wear it. It makes life for everyone a great deal more pleasant.’

Delighted with her present, Ella showed Louise the primrose balm. Louise held the little box, smooth as a chestnut and scented like the first days of summer. Touching a finger to her wind-chapped lips, she refused Ella’s offer of using it herself. ‘But I will learn to make my own,’ she said, sounding a little grim.

That night, as she and Crozier undressed for bed, she mentioned Ella’s gift. Lady Foulberry, she said, was clearly a clever woman. Ella had shown her the wax, and Benoit had spoken of her ladyship’s powders and perfumes and oils. ‘Did she not offer anything to you?’ she asked, hurrying to get beneath the blankets and furs.

‘Aye,’ said Crozier, ‘she did. But I didn’t think you’d want it.’

Snuffing the rushlights, he joined her under the covers. In the dark Louise reached for his hand, but he was turned from her, his back as cold as his voice. Wrapping her arms around herself, she asked, ‘What is she like, this Lady Foulberry?’

Crozier sighed, then turned, heavily, to face her. ‘She is beautiful,’ he said, ‘in a foreign sort of way. Far younger than her husband, and every inch the lady. She smells like a pitcher of flowers, paints her lips purple and dusts her cheeks white. She covers herself in furs, and wears gowns beneath that would shock a priest and delight most men.’

Louise spoke almost in a whisper. ‘And you – did she delight you?’

‘No,’ said Crozier, his breath warm on her face as he ran his fingers through her hair, the way one comforts a child, ‘she did not. Now, can we sleep?’

Tucked in his arm, Louise heard him sink into sleep but it was hours before she joined him. The image of Isabella Foulberry swam before her. It would not have worried her had Crozier not refused the gift, but why would he do that, if all was innocent between them?

The next day, as she picked her way across the icy yard to the brewhouse, she caught Tom glancing her way. ‘What?’ she asked. Tom shook his head and would have passed, but she grabbed his sleeve and pulled him inside the brewery, where they would be alone.

‘Is something wrong?’ she asked, her voice as low as the vaulted roof. ‘You and Crozier have come home in the strangest of moods. Did anything happen while you were away?’ When Tom looked uncomfortable, she added, ‘Is it about him and that woman?’

‘What woman?’ he asked, so unconvincingly that Louise felt dizzy, as if her fears had been confirmed.

She put a hand on the wall to steady herself. ‘Does he . . . Did they . . .?’

Tom shrugged, suddenly angry. ‘I don’t know if anything happened between them, but this I can tell you: I do not understand what game my brother is playing.’ At Louise’s stricken look, he continued, ‘The woman has little breeding, for all her airs. She could not keep her eyes off Crozier and he, he . . .’ Tom glared at the roof as he picked his words. ‘He did not seem to dislike her attentions. Leastwise, he did nothing to keep her at a distance. And he played with her children as if they were his own.’

‘Her children?’ Louise put a hand to her mouth, as if this were the worst news of all. ‘Played with them . . .?’

‘The most part of each morning, he taught the boys how to fence. They clung to his side when we left. But he promised them he’d be back.’

‘What did her husband make of this?’

‘Lord Foulberry was buried in his books most of the time. Her ladyship flirted with all of us, as if he was in his dotage. All Foulberry did was nod, and smile, and tell the servants to bring more wine. One night I saw him put his hand up a serving girl’s skirt, but if she noticed her ladyship said nothing.’

Louise’s face was whiter than any lady’s powder, and Tom grasped her by the shoulders. ‘Listen, Adam may have done nothing at all wrong. It’s just that he won’t talk to me. I’ve tried asking what he is up to, but he would say nothing except he knew what he was doing, and I should trust him. He said I should not question him again. Then he went silent. You know what he’s like. I would never have dreamt he could do such a thing to you, and I still want to believe he has not, and will not. He adores you. Everyone knows that.’

‘Thank you,’ said Louise, slipping out of his reach and holding the brewhouse door open.

‘I am a fool,’ Tom said guiltily. ‘I should have said nothing.’

‘I’m fine,’ she replied, and gave him a push. With a backward glance he left. His spurs scraped the cobbles as he crossed the yard, his stride so furious he almost struck sparks.

Closing the door, Louise sat beside the copper cauldron, hid her face in her hands and wept. For a few minutes the world went black, as if it had been emptied of everything that mattered. Then she wiped her eyes and got on with her work.

When she returned to the keep, carrying a pitcher of newly drawn ale, no one noticed her reddened eyes. Crozier was at the blacksmith’s and Ella was quietening her youngest, whose first tooth made his cheeks flame and his cries reach a trumpeter’s pitch. Unobserved, Louise pocketed a couple of apples, saddled her young gelding and left the keep, taking the uphill track that wound high into the valley. The wolf padded at the horse’s side, close to his mistress’s boots.

Once among the trees Louise loosened the reins and let the horse find his pace. Beneath the leafless beeches and oaks daylight was thin, a fragile February blue that promised a cold evening and frosty night. A breeze was gathering, and she closed her eyes, letting it wash over her face. A tear trickled onto her cloak, unnoticed, as she thought about her husband. Last night’s assurance about Lady Foulberry had done nothing to allay her fears, which Tom’s doubts had merely confirmed.

Most wives, she knew, would not dare ask such a question, nor be given an answer. Dalliances were common, not just in houses such as theirs, but in the village’s hovels. No rank was above such things, but the wise hid their indiscretions, appearances mattering more than morals. A wife’s role was to pretend she knew of nothing awry, and to welcome the straying husband with open arms when he had tired of his adventures.

Why should it be different for her? What made her think her marriage was unlike others? She and Crozier were close, but so no doubt were many couples who shared their affections beyond the marital bed.

The gelding picked its way into the forest, snorting in the tickling air, but Louise did not notice where they were headed. Before her eyes she saw not the track or the trees but Crozier’s gaunt face and gentle, horseman’s hands. If he had succumbed to the Lady Foulberry, could she wholly blame him? In ten years of marriage she had failed in her main duty. She would be thirty next year, but had yet to give him an heir. By some standards a childless wife did not merit the title. Since she had not earned the position better call her simply concubine, or housekeeper.

And yet she had tried. At the memory of the family they might have had, Louise lowered her head. Their lost child, in the early years of their marriage, was a grief she had never got over. Dead within days of delivery, as very nearly was Louise, baby Helene was buried in the woods within sight of their chamber window. Confined to bed as she recovered, Louise had stared for days at the trees beyond the shutters, unable to think, or sleep, or eat. Crozier had sat with her, his hand on hers, then would ride out alone, not returning till dark. Since then, there had been no quickening in her womb to raise hope or alarm, and the years turned and passed, bereft of children, but not empty.

Afternoon was fading fast, but Louise would have ridden on had the horse not come to a halt. The wolf padded in circles and whined, uncertain which way to go. They had reached a stream, usually no more than a ribbon, but now swollen with hill-snow and rain. The gelding tossed his head, eyeing the swirling waters. Louise dismounted and patted his neck, turning him back the way they had come. ‘Good boy,’ she said, stroking his nose, and giving him an apple. Leading him homewards, she called the wolf to heel, and walked for a time, her boots scuffing the crispened leaves that, this deep into the forest, had barely been touched by ice. Her eyes ached, as did her head, but a cold calm had settled on her. If Crozier had become enamoured of Isabella she would be desolate, but she had surely played a part. It was she who had urged him to join the ranks of people like the Foulberrys and act as if he was of their kind. It was her ill luck that in Lord Foulberry’s home he had perhaps found the family he had always wanted, and the sort of woman he wished Louise could be. The thought sickened her, but a stony resolve was gathering. She would ask him to take her on their next trip to Foulberry’s castle: not to spy on him, or show her mistrust, but to see what kind of woman this lady was, and to let her know that Crozier’s wife wanted to meet her rival. These were times that called for courage, and she would not lose her husband without a fight.

In the great hall, where the clan was gathered at dinner, Crozier stood by the fire, reading a letter newly arrived by messenger. Seeming not to notice Louise’s riding gear, or her late return, he drew her aside.

‘Lord Foulberry has news of Dacre’s deputy. He writes that Eure will be presiding over the Warden General’s court in Dacre’s absence early next month, and that he has agreed to stay a night with Foulberry, when his business has been dealt with.’

‘Will you meet him?’

The borderer shook his head. ‘Not yet. Although Foulberry has suggested I could eavesdrop on their discussions.’ At Louise’s bemused look he explained. ‘He understands that I might fear they are hatching a plot against me unless I hear their deliberations for myself. His wife has suggested I could be privy to their discussion, but invisible too.’

‘So you would sneak behind the arras and lurk like a thief?’

‘Precisely.’ There was a light in his eyes, and she knew an idea was forming. ‘Or maybe it should not be me. Someone else could do it.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘Tom, I was thinking,’ said Crozier. ‘Better perhaps that it is him.’