Dacre's War (40 page)

‘I have not come to alarm you,' Blackbird continued. ‘The part you have played in my master's destruction is for your confessor to judge, not me. But you should know that Baron Dacre will not be forever in prison. The Lord Chancellor himself has assured him of that. When he returns, the baron might be more willing to live in peace with those who turned against him if they try to help him now.'

‘Why should—' Isabella began. Her husband pinched her arm, and she fell quiet.

‘My lady intends to ask, sir, in what way we can help him?' The oil in Lord Foulberry's voice was like balm to Blackbird. After a month of hard riding and humiliation, here at last was a man prepared to do business.

‘Please,' Foulberry said, ‘be seated.'

Blackbird perched on a stool, the couple took their settle, and for a moment no word was spoken. The chittering of finches in the courtyard wafted into the hall, and tension eased. The butler watched as her ladyship's face relaxed, her hand on Foulberry's arm less like a claw. His eyes travelled over her painted face, the low-cut bodice, the silken, embroidered shoes. The wealth this pair enjoyed could not match Dacre's, but no wonder they had fought him off, intent on keeping what was rightfully theirs. The baron's neighbours, they were also among his worst foes. What Foulberry had to say about that would be interesting.

‘Sir,' his lordship began, unhitching himself from Isabella, and clasping his hands together as if in prayer, ‘sir, we owe your master a great apology. I did indeed put my name to testimony against him, but it was not done willingly. I was the victim of coercion of the most evil kind, by one whom I dared not offend. My wife here . . .' Foulberry's voice broke, and he pressed his fingers briefly to his lips. ‘My dearest wife was taken hostage, and not returned until I had agreed to do his bidding.'

Blackbird's eyebrows lifted.

‘The man of whom I speak – beast would be a better word – is one of the wolves of the border. Adam Crozier, head of that clan, and the most vile, noxious and pernicious robber in Teviotdale. It was he who betrayed your master.'

‘In what way?'

At some length, Foulberry described the collecting of depositions. ‘Many were given willingly, I am sure, though it grieves me to tell you that. But Crozier needed my name to persuade the others to take part, and that is where he would not take no for an answer. He forced his way inside here, and at swordpoint he took my oath.' Lord Foulberry turned his face aside, as if the memory were still bitter. ‘I cannot bear to recall it. Lest I be tempted to inform Dacre of what he was doing, he . . . he abducted my wife, and . . . and . . .'

Isabella touched his arm, and he closed his eyes, as though willing the terrible images to depart. ‘It is all right, my sweet,' she whispered. ‘I am home and safe; it is all over now.'

Her husband raised wet eyes to the butler, who was watching the pair intently, but if Foulberry had hoped for sympathy, none was forthcoming.

‘I believe there is more you can tell me, is there not?' Blackbird prompted. ‘Something else beyond the accusations heard in the Star Chamber. Something damaging not just to Dacre but to certain members of the court?'

There was a glint in Foulberry's eye as he looked up, quickly concealed. ‘So that is what you are after?' he murmured. ‘I can help you there, then, my man. Most certainly.'

Isabella looked at her husband fondly, then turned to the butler. ‘But before he says more,' she said quickly, ‘what can you offer in return?'

Blackbird held her gaze. ‘Ma'am, you will have the certainty that if this information helps Dacre secure a speedier release, your slate will be wiped clean, and Dacre not only forgive you but perhaps acknowledge he is in your debt. You can then sleep well at night. I very much doubt you get much rest at the moment, knowing his men could arrive any day.'

He stared round the hall, with its high black beams from which hung coronets of candles, cold wax curling down their necks like druids' beards. ‘It cannot be pleasant, sitting on Dacre's doorstep, after denouncing him as you have.'

‘It has been like living in hell,' spluttered Foulberry. ‘Utter torment. I cannot express to you how this chance to put things right with the baron liberates my soul. I am like a new man . . .'

‘Tell me first what you know,' said Blackbird, ‘and then you can feel shriven.'

‘Very well, then. Very well.' Foulberry fussed with his sleeves, while he chose his words. ‘By devious and no doubt violent means, Crozier obtained letters between the dowager queen and Lord Dacre. Most incriminating their contents were. If they had landed in the wrong hands, your master would already be dead.'

‘And who did he send them to? Cardinal Wolsey?'

Foulberry shook his head. ‘The Duke of Norfolk, I believe. But one can be fairly certain that the duke has informed Wolsey of their contents.' He sat back, with the beginnings of a smile. ‘Is that likely to prove useful to Dacre? I think it surely must.'

Blackbird got to his feet. ‘If what you say is true then it might well be what the baron was looking for. You will be informed if so.' He clicked his heels, the Foulberrys bowed, and he was gone, so fast that they could almost have believed they had conjured him merely from their fears.

Blackbird rode slowly over the Cumberland fields, enjoying the sights of home. As Dacre had instructed, he had one more duty to fulfil before returning to London, but first he would spend a night or two at Naworth.

The castle welcomed him with its smell of polished wood and scented rushes. In his absence, the housekeeper and her army of servants had not grown slovenly, and he looked round with approval as he walked through the great hall and down the corridors, glimpsing the orderly rooms beyond. Joan was now home, awaiting her father's release, since Harbottle was no longer in his command. When his punishment ended, it was here he would return. She rushed to hear word of him, clasping her hands as she plied the butler with questions, though the news he brought of the baron's good spirits and high hopes did little to soften the anxiety on her whitewashed face.

He patted her cheek. ‘Fret not, little one. He will be home very shortly, and all will be well. It'll be just like old times.'

Tears filled her eyes. ‘You cannot know that,' she said, angrily. ‘Until he is free, nothing is certain. Nothing at all.'

The next morning, Blackbird was leading his horse out of the stables when he saw a slovenly figure cross the yard towards the well. It was Oliver Barton, shucking off his shirt before plunging his head into a bucket.

‘Hey there!' Blackbird called him over. ‘What brings you here?'

Barton approached slowly, shrugging himself back into the shirt. ‘Like everyone else, I'm waiting for Dacre's return.'

When he was within reach, the butler grabbed him by the scruff of his shirt, and pushed his face into his. ‘Useless informer you proved to be. Crozier was planning Dacre's ruin right under your nose, and you saw and heard nothing until it was too late. You send a note, as if that's of any use now, and save your own skin by getting out before Crozier knew what you were up to. Now I suppose you're hanging around for your fee, and eating your head off while you wait. But you'd best get out of here before the master gets back. Dacre owes you nothing more than a boot up the arse for wasting everyone's time.'

Barton's eyes registered nothing. He sniffed, and hawked on the cobblestones, and the butler quickly stepped back.

‘Aye,' the sailor said, ‘I found out it was Crozier and his cronies. I had news of that for his lordship, but by the time I reached Harbottle he had gone, and you with him. That is what I was “hanging around” to tell him, in case the letter didnae reach him, or the scribe had got it down wrong. But thank you for the permission to be gone. I might well. Pay me what I'm owed, and I'll be off.' He sniffed again, and pulled off his shirt, wiping himself under his arms. ‘Not much round here to keep me amused, that's for sure.'

He sauntered back to the well, his ribboned hair hanging in a curl down his naked back like a large, wandering slug.

The following day Blackbird reached the Tynedale forest. He reined in his horse, and stared at the forest edge, brooding and dark as a curtain wall. Summer seemed to shrivel in its face, light sucked in by the profusion of ivy that snaked up every tree. He drew his knife and laid it across the pommel before putting his fingers into his mouth and whistling. A mimic replied from nearby, and another, a mile or more hence. Staying on his horse, Blackbird did not move. Behind him the hills were bright and warm, but he was glad of his jerkin and cap.

Soon he heard the sound of feet, and a boy emerged from the trees. With a flick of his head, he instructed Blackbird to follow. Some time later, the butler crossed the river and came to Black Ned's village. Children flapped and squawked between the hidden houses like the chickens beneath their feet, and their mothers looked on, unmoved, as they pinned clothes onto the trees to dry, or coaxed goats off their low thatched roofs to be milked.

Legs spread, hat tipped back on his head, Black Ned was seated outside his house, sharpening a quiver of arrows. The butler did not talk for long, and the outlaw scarcely at all. Blackbird gave orders, and handed over a pouch of silver. More, he intimated, would follow on completion of the task. The outlaw's beard nodded, and the money disappeared somewhere beneath his cloak. There was nothing more to say, but for a moment the men looked at each other, the glitter in one set of eyes matched by the glint in the other.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

July 1525

At the foot of the valley below Crozier's Keep, where the stream broadened into a river, Louise picked her way across the birch-lined meadow. The silvered barks were almost blinding in the afternoon's glare. She was stooped, finding plants and herbs for Antoine's store, to replenish the shelves now he was gone. The soldier had left receipts, but some of his remedies she remembered without help. High summer was when many plants were in flower, and she plucked and pulled, stuffing her bag with willowherb, comfrey and viper's bugloss. Later, once the plants and their seeds had dried in the sun, she would make the potions and salves Antoine had shown her, ready for winter, when the keep and the village came out in rashes and sores, and people shivered with ague.

The wolf rustled through the grasses behind her, then sank panting by her side, his ribs heaving in the heat. She sat beside him and put a hand on his head and together they listened to meadow pipits chirruping from the cloudless sky. A pollen haze lay over the meadow, heavy as fog in the still air. Bees droned, broom seeds popped, and a dragonfly hovered, brighter than a rainbow. The wolf put his head on his paws, and dozed. Louise lifted her eyes to the valley and the towering banks of trees, patient under the sun. Her hand rested on her stomach, and the small bump beneath, where her child was sleeping.

Antoine had been the first to guess her condition, and she still was not sure how he could have been certain. She told Crozier the following evening, when they were alone in their chamber. The expression on his face would be with her for the rest of her life: first disbelief, then a flush of colour that made him look as young and vulnerable as a boy. unable to speak, he took her hands. ‘It is true,' she said shyly. ‘All thanks to Antoine and his potions. I did not like to tell you, in case they did not work. I dared not allow myself to believe they would.'

Crozier shook his head, a smile dispelling his shock. ‘What trouble that man was, but may God preserve him now.'

He put an arm round Louise's waist, and she placed his hand on her stomach, covering it with her own. She spoke softly, as if not to disturb the new life she carried. ‘We must be careful not to hope for too much. It is very early still. And with Helene . . .'

‘Hush,' he said. ‘It will be different this time.'

‘But it might go wrong again. You know it could.'

Crozier held her close. ‘Be calm. That will not happen. But even if it did, Lou, we will endure, you and I, whatever comes.'

Sitting by the fire late into the night, they spoke little, contemplating the revelation and the fresh prospects and fears it brought them. The borderer's face was serious as he eyed the flames. He might have spoken with confidence to reassure his wife, but he was no less anxious.

For some weeks they kept the news to themselves, until it was impossible to hide, but it was noticeable that, amidst the backslapping and cheers, their joy was subdued. Not even in her most private self could Louise look ahead to the baby's birth and what lay beyond. Her hopes were so high they frightened her. The child was to be born the month before Christmas, but she dared not indulge herself by picturing its arrival, or imagining how she and Crozier would feel. Until she had conceived this child, she believed she had buried part of her heart with Helene. Now she knew that it was as fully alive as it had ever been, and was yearning to love. Frightened of the pain another loss would bring, she tried to temper her excitement, and so the early days of summer were passed in a see-saw struggle between soaring happiness and dampening common sense.