Dacre's War (41 page)

On an afternoon such as this, however, it was hard not to let one's mind drift to the possibilities ahead. Louise smiled, and for a moment closed her eyes, like the wolf, to soak up the sunlight and the benign promise of a contented future its warmth seemed to hold.

Suddenly her eyes opened, and she sat up straight. She smelled smoke. The wolf yawned as Louise scrambled to her feet, looking up the valley towards the keep. It felt uncomfortably far away from this, its lowest field. Only the tip of the towers was visible among the trees, but no cloud rose from there. Turning in the direction of the valley mouth, she stared, eyes screwed tight against the brightness. She could not be sure, but she thought she saw a thickening of the air above the slopes that hid the village. On a windless day, no ordinary fire's scent would reach this far.

Untethering the gelding from its tree, Louise set off at a canter along the riverside. The wolf loped ahead, tongue lolling. The smell grew stronger, and before she came to the road that led into the village fragments of ash began to float past, hanging like moths on the still, hot air.

It was then the noise reached her: men's shouts and children's shrieks and a dismal wailing that made her stomach turn. The gelding snorted, and as they came round the bend to the village it shied at the sight of flames leaping into the sky. The whole place was alight, as if it were a bowl of fire. Cottages burned like braziers, and screams from those trapped within could be heard all too clearly above the savage roar of the blaze.

Struggling to keep the gelding under control, Louise did not see the horsemen stationed around the village, nor Black Ned, circling his mount among the mill of terrified villagers, and scything heads with his sword. Smoke rolled towards her and her eyes stung as she peered ahead, trying to make sense of what was happening. She could not see those who broke free from their funeral pyres and raced into the street, onto the ends of their tormentors' swords, but she did hear their choking cries and the raiders' laughs and jeers.

The wolf's demented barking brought her to her senses, but not soon enough. By the time she understood that the village was under siege, one of the horsemen was bearing down upon her, his dim outline thickening as he barrelled through the smoke.

With a cry, Louise wheeled the gelding, but its terrified skittering was no match for the raider's warhorse. Axe raised above his head to bring down on hers, the man was about to strike when, as if out of nowhere, the wolf leapt with a snarl and sank his teeth into his shoulder. With a bellow, the rider fell off his horse, weapon thrown aside. Louise dug her heels into the gelding's flanks, but as the horse careered off and finally found its speed, she looked back and saw the rider stagger to his feet. Teeth bared, the wolf held him at bay, crouched for another attack, but the man's axe was in his hand again and as the dog flew at his throat he buried it in his chest. There was a terrible twisting of limbs in the air, Saint George and the dragon cruelly reversed, before the dog landed, spread-eagled, its pale coat turning scarlet. The wolf's dying howl rose over the village and was locked in Louise's head as she galloped for home.

The alarm had been raised before she reached the keep, and Crozier and his men were already on the road by the time she reached the forest. They pulled to a halt at the sight of her, and she told them, breathlessly, what was happening. ‘Get home, and close the gates!' Crozier roared, leading his men on. In a tornado of dust they disappeared down the track, but Louise did not linger to watch. At the keep she set the guards to work, then with Ella gathered the children, Old Crozier and the servants into the great hall. She barred the door, stoked the fire, and finally paused to catch her breath. It was then the pains began.

At the sound of the Croziers' horses, the raiders tried to escape. Abandoning the burning village they set off across the fields, but where the smothering smoke ended and clear air began they found the clan, lined up to meet them. The keep's horses were stamping, and their riders' swords were fresh.

Black Ned's outlaw band were not cowards. They were reckless, undisciplined, but strong, and when the fight was on they did not care what it cost them to win. Benoit and Tom fought side by side, ferocious in their fury, but the battle was hard. Both were sliced by the raiders's swords, and both saw off their attackers, ending their insolence there, on the hillside, now their last place of rest.

At the other end of the village, Crozier and his archers were picking off those who, driven back to the village, were trying to slip off through the smoke. The arrows found their home, the raiders were brought down, and gradually the sound of shouts and oaths began to quieten. When it seemed the place had been almost emptied of the enemy, Crozier's men began pulling people from their homes. Some were still alive, though barely, but many were not, and when they broke down doors and found smoking corpses and charred bones, there was no clansman who did not retch.

There were only two stone houses in the village, the blacksmith's and the priest's. Both had been banked high with lit straw, the raiders liking to cook people alive in their homes, as if they were rooks in a pie. A lick of red was creeping across Father Walsh's roof, but before Crozier reached his door he caught sight of Black Ned, skulking behind the blacksmith's forge until he could slip off unseen. Quietly, he rode into the yard, behind the smoke-stack of a house. Black Ned gave a snarl when he found himself cornered between outhouse and wall, the only escape blocked by the borderer, whose advancing figure trembled and shimmered in the heat.

Too close to the burning house, the outlaw's stallion was frothing at the bit, its eyes reflecting the flames. Crozier's mare was calm under his hand, and the borderer urged her forward until he could lunge, his sword finding Black Ned's chest as the raider's frightened horse bucked and pranced, fighting its rider's steel grip on the reins. Armstrong's sword flailed as he tried to hold his beast steady, and a second strike knocked it out of his hand. Before Crozier could draw closer, Black Ned was off his horse, an axe held before him. He began to circle the mare, swinging his blade in an arc that made her snort and shy. A sneer had begun to spread over his face when his stallion, seeing its chance, charged past him, out of the yard. Its back hooves clipped him, pitching him against the smiddy walls, where the straw bonfire had become a furnace, melting the house beneath.

For a moment, caught in the fire's embrace, Black Ned could not move. Then, as the flames crawled over him, he staggered, shouting, out of their clutch, and found Crozier's sword at his neck. The borderer pressed him back into the blaze, step by step, and held him there as if on a spit. Fire clawed at the outlaw like a bear, and his flesh quivered as if he were made of wax. His face was misshapen with terror, his mouth slack, and his eyes clung to Crozier's. Then he began to scream. As his body started to twist and curl, engulfed in an orange tide, the borderer sank his blade home, and the screams were no more.

Crozier and the men returned to the keep that evening, grey-faced with ash. Several were brought home slumped over the backs of their horses, to be laid out under sheets in an outhouse, and buried early the next day. When Benoit, Tom and Adam dismounted they were giddy with fatigue. Once the last of the raiders had been dealt with, they had joined the rescue. Many cottages were nothing but a slump of burnt wood, the bodies that lay under them destroyed beyond recognition, and the smell of roasted flesh the only sign anyone had once lived there. The blacksmith's cremation was well under way when Tom and the others kicked the door in, found the family, and dragged them out, coughing as if they would never breathe easy again.

The priest's house, one of the first to be fired, was engulfed in flames. The clansmen stood back, smoke-blackened sweat pouring down their faces. If Father Walsh had been at home when the raiders arrived, he was now in the arms of Saint Peter. They crossed their breasts at the sight, and turned their backs to the inferno, to help those who were still alive. It was a week before they learned that the priest had been far away when the raid took place, visiting a monastery in the next dale. His reappearance amid the ruins was first taken as an angelic apparition, and then as proof that God had not utterly forsaken the village. In the keep, there was as much joy at the news as if he were their own kin.

By the time Crozier's men left, the village was a charred wasteland. That night, and for many to come, people would be sleeping in stables and barns. The dead were dragged to the square, arms folded over their chests. Dozens lay there, old and very young, as twilight mingled with the drifting smoke and a haze fell over the village, softening the sight of its desolation in a brief act of mercy.

At the keep, Crozier strode across the courtyard, Tom and Benoit at his heels. A deep cut on Benoit's face was oozing black blood, or so it looked in the fading light. ‘Why the village?' he asked, wiping his cheek with a rag. ‘They've done nobody any harm.'

‘It was me they wanted revenge on,' said Crozier. ‘Looked like they were Dacre's outlaw army – some of the bastards I caught had brands on their necks. Word must have got back to the baron that I helped bring about his disgrace, but without him at their side his men would never dare attack me here, in the keep.'

‘Will they be back?' Benoit asked, fear undisguised.

Crozier shrugged. ‘Their leader is dead, and the village ruined. What's left for them now?'

Tom coughed, smoke still burning his lungs. ‘That sort's loyal to no one and nothing but money,' he wheezed. ‘If Dacre's been dismissed, as they say, he won't be able to afford them much longer.' He glanced at his brother with a glimmer of awe. ‘And it looks as if he's not coming back – or not as the man he was, thanks to you.' He slapped Crozier's shoulder and, arms round each other's necks, the three made their way into the keep.

Louise was sitting by the fire in the hall, hunched like an old woman. With Ella she had begun to tend the wounded, but the pains had grown so severe she could now do nothing but rock herself back and forth, arms wrapped around her stomach.

Crozier was at her side, and before she could speak, he had lifted her and carried her to their room. He reeked of smoke, his clothes were spattered with blood, but she clung to him as if she would never let go.

Laying her on their bed, he loosened her bodice, tugged off her boots and pulled a coverlet over her legs. Louise did not move, doing her best not to cry. What she had heard and glimpsed in the village that afternoon made her fears seem very small. When Crozier placed a concerned hand on her forehead a few tears fell, but they both pretended not to notice.

Ella fussed around as if Louise were her youngest child. She brought hot water, and rags, and pressed a bitter infusion of wintergreen into her hands. Crozier lit the fire, and its pine crackle kept them company through the unsleeping night, when waves of pain convulsed her, and she could barely breathe, able only to clutch her husband's hand.

‘What if we lose this baby?' she whispered. ‘I could not bear it. Nor could you.'

Crozier stroked the damp hair off her face. ‘Hush yourself. We'll bear whatever we have to. We're strong, and we have each other.'

‘I am a bad wife,' she sobbed. ‘I have given you no child. If this little one should . . .'

Crozier's voice was unsteady. ‘I did not marry you for children, but for yourself. And thank God I still have you.' He looked at her, frowning. ‘I am not one for words, you know that. I expect you to read my thoughts. But you must also know I would never betray you. The way I behaved with Lady Foulberry was cruel, but not in the way you perhaps imagined. I have not dared to tell you everything, in case you would think of me with shame, or worse.'

Louise stared, frightened of what she was about to learn. Crozier turned away, unable to meet her eyes. ‘I led her to believe I might be interested in her.' He stopped, as if that was explanation enough, but after a long pause he continued. ‘With a treacherous pair like them I thought it necessary. I knew they would think nothing of betraying me if and when it suited them. Hinting at what could happen, I thought, was a way of inveigling myself and entrapping her. And maybe I was right. In fact, I'm sure of it. But what mortifies me is that I began to enjoy it. A woman like that, who thinks she can have whoever she likes at a flick of her fingers – she was not only easy but a pleasure to trick.' He looked at his wife, his face clouded with regret. ‘Lou, she would have destroyed our happiness – anyone's – without a thought. I hoped I might inflict some damage on her marriage. Instead, I almost ruined ours.'

He gave a low, unhappy laugh. ‘You wanted to meet her, but the very thought made me sick. You should not be in the same room as someone that conniving. And so I told her, at the end.' He shook his head, remembering the shrieks and hysterics, the pounding of fists on his chest in the French inn, where it had taken three servants and a tub of dishwater to dampen Isabella Foulberry's fury.

‘I did not like the kind of man I had become – calculating and callous as the very people I despised. That was the worst of all. I felt unworthy of you.'

‘So you and she – you were never tempted . . . You never, not even once . . .'

He closed his eyes for a moment. ‘God forgive me, Lou, that you could even think such a thing. The lady Foulberry might make fools of most of the men she meets, but she could not make one of me. She is not an evil woman, perhaps, but she is vain, and wilful, and dangerous. Her manner is designed to capture hearts. Whereas you are lovely beyond anything she could dream of, and you do not even realise it.'

Louise covered her face to hide her tears. ‘I thought you had grown to love me less,' she said, when eventually she could speak. ‘I was so miserable.'

Crozier bent closer, speaking low and stern. ‘I love you with all the love there is. You must never again doubt it.'