After Flodden (19 page)

Crozier scraped back his chair and rubbed his cropped head as if to sharpen his wits. ‘This is what we’ll do,’ he said. ‘Bertie will send another scout to Edinburgh, and
get him close to the palace quarters. He can report back when or if he hears news of the widow’s response.’

‘I have jist the lad for it,’ said Bertie. ‘He’s winching wi’ a servant in the Canongate, close by the palace, though not much good’ll come of that pairing, I
rue.’

Crozier continued. ‘Our other scouts are to be recalled, to report here by noon two days hence. They must spread the news across the Borders of what is being planned. We need to inform the
heads of the clans.’

‘Even the Elliots?’ asked Tom. ‘They’re in the king’s protection, or so you’ve always told me. They can’t be in danger, not like the rest of
us.’

‘Even the Elliots,’ said Crozier, ‘though it pains me. They may have fought at Flodden, but when vengeance comes to the Borders, the vermin and the valiant are as one. We owe
it to them.’

‘Are ye aff yer heid?’ Wat was on his feet, toppling his empty tankard as he slammed the table with his fist. ‘They are our mortal enemies. They murdered yer faither, destroyed
our land, and stole our beasts. If it werenae for them, Crozier’s Keep would still be the pride of Teviotdale, and we lot wid be chiefs o’ the march.’

Crozier shook his head, a gesture so sorrowful that Wat fell silent. Breathing hard, he looked down at the young man in disbelief. After a long silence, he picked up his overturned chair.
‘I dinnae ken, I jist dinnae ken,’ he muttered, taking his place at the table. Crozier pushed the jug of ale towards him.

‘We have our own codes in these parts, we all know that,’ the Borderer continued. ‘My father always said he’d rather be a galley slave than be in the king’s pay.
But some of the clans fought at Flodden, and that was their choice. If they can sleep at night, that’s their affair.

‘All I know is that honour comes higher than revenge. The good and noble name of the Croziers depends on us warning our neighbours. I have no more love for the Elliots than any of you
– or the Beatties or Humes or Douglases for that matter.’

He passed a hand over his beard, and in the hush of the vault the rasp sounded like a whetted knife. ‘But let’s not forget that our family has helped make its own misfortune. The
Elliot knaves are no worse than many others. It’s my certain belief that Dacre paid Ethan Elliot to kill my father, and destroy the rest of us. One day I intend to find out the truth of that.
One way or another, whoever is to blame will pay. That day will be sweet.’

He sighed. ‘But that is for the future. Right now, we face the greatest threat of our lives.’ He looked around the group, at these wild riders of the valleys and moors. Threadbare
and underfed, in the feeble lamplight their eyes were dark and mysterious, their shameful raggedness hidden. Crozier felt a tug of respect for his men, an affection no exasperation could quench. He
had been brought up on tales of their courage, and that of their forebears, but it was only since his father’s death that their mettle had been truly tested. Those fallen on hard times, with
no money, and no influence, needed stout hearts to survive. His kinsmen, gossips and braggers and woolly-witted as they were, had nerves to match their steel helmets and ideals that needed only a
little stoking to glow as bright.

Crozier cleared his throat. ‘Too many folks in these parts live by treachery and lies. God knows we’re not innocent ourselves. But this I say to you: I would rather my worst enemy in
the marches evaded the royal sword than that I did nothing to warn those who have never done us any harm, or have given us friendship.’ He splashed ale into his mug, threw it back in a gulp,
and surveyed his men with a bitter eye.

‘The Borders are our kingdom, not the crown’s. Here we’re masters of our own affairs, not the serfs of any lord or monarch. I, for one, would rather die than submit to their
rule, or put their needs ahead of the life of a single Borderer.’

The table came alive to the thumping of tankards on the polished pine, and the kitchen maid was summoned to pull another jug of ale, and set some broth on the fire. By the time a lazy sun had
crawled above the treetops, the men of Crozier’s Keep had forgotten their fatigue, and were back at business, sharpening knives, polishing scabbards, and preparing their horses’
tack.

CHAPTER TWELVE

7 October 1513

Goodwife Black was weary of answering the door to the secretary’s house. It thudded so often these days, it might have been an archer’s target. Better she flung it
wide open at the start of day and pinned an arrow to the wall pointing to her master’s chambers, for all to follow. That way she could get on with her work.

There seemed no end to the visitors, most of them from the court, or lords of the shires, all seeking guidance in these rudderless times. Yet at least she no longer need turn them away. Patrick
Paniter appeared to be recovering his wits. By morning, he spoke with his guests, by afternoon wrote letters, as if paper cost as little as ale. At night he ate well, and in bed he dreamed more
peacefully, holding her less like a drowning soul clinging to a buoy, and more as a man with his love. Even so, her ribs were a perpetual ache, as was her heart. There was a blankness still in
Paniter’s eyes that made her wonder what fresh trouble awaited. Almost a month since his return, and he had yet to say a word about what he had witnessed on the battlefield. There was a
quality to his silence on this subject which made her wonder if he ever would.

That morning, however, all seemed well. He dressed himself with more than usual care. Other than a plain linen shirt, his garb was black. It was an outfit that made him look more like a priest
than a counsellor of the court, but by this he wished to signal to the world that he, and the country, had suffered a great and smothering loss. Only the glinting of his rings suggested a spark of
returning life. Slapping his housewife’s backside and planting a kiss on her cheek, he left. His shoes clipped the stairs as he hurried out, a leather purse under his arm in which he carried
the papers he had been writing late into the night. A velvet chapeau sat on his untied hair, like a cat crouching on a chimney pot.

He was headed for the palace of Holyroodhouse, where the widow’s counsellors were waiting. The day was fresh, an easterly wind bringing a taste of winter from the north sea, its icy touch
chapping his bloodless face. His steps beat on down the high street, and for a moment, as he looked across the city to the sea beyond, his spirits lifted. It was impossible on such a morning not to
acknowledge the joy of being alive, to feel one’s strength returning, and with it the self-confidence he had once taken for granted. Even the news that the
Michael
had run aground in
a storm, and neither she nor the rest of the fleet had reached France in time to join the fight, did not dent his mood. Grief, like defeat, was a sore that would eventually heal. He was not so
foolish as to expect it would fade fast, but today he had the first glimmering of hope that the weight of despondency he had been carrying was lightening, just a little.

It was he who had called this meeting. The newly crowned James V was barely out of swaddling, taking his first steps in the safety of Stirling Castle. The coronation had been dismal, more like a
wake than a day of anointing, and the memory of it was raw. The little boy had been dressed in brilliant velvets and silks, but the rest of the party wore black, soaking up the light and casting
shadows deep as gloom. As the solemn words of kingship were intoned over the child’s head, his mother burst out weeping. Distressed, the boy set up a wail. Not even the sight of new toys
brought for his amusement could console him, because he had been told he could not touch them until the proceedings, the speeches, the never-ending fuss, was over.

There was none present that day who did not feel as miserable as young James. For his part, Paniter spoke barely a word, his throat aching with tears he dare not spill. He and the queen
conferred that evening, but he could recall nothing of what was said, remembering only his throbbing head and the overwhelming desire to get back home and bolt his door.

In the days that followed, Margaret dispatched a sheaf of letters to her family and advisors, but she had not sent a single word to her brother, whom she blamed for her husband’s death.
Wan and thin, she was queasy with a bairn so newly conceived it must have come into port in the days or hours before James had left for the campaign. God willing this one would thrive, as her
short-lived last had not.

In his weeks of self-imposed isolation, Paniter had responded to no-one from the court except the queen. Her letters, smudged with tears and ink, had gathered on his table, a deepening drift of
questions, fears and orders, each more anxious and confused than the last. Even in his misery, he could not neglect her, and he found himself replying in a tone of consolation and encouragement,
very unlike the formal, cold diplomat of earlier times.

Margaret had been appointed regent in her husband’s will, but she knew that scarcely before James’s last testament had been opened and read, half the privy council, and most of
Scotland’s remaining lords, deplored this decision. It was enough, they said, that she was the child’s mother. What did she know of running a country? Worse still, as Henry VIII’s
sister, could she be trusted? With these and other questions, nobles were jostling to claim this most powerful role. No wonder the queen felt alarm.

It was Paniter’s duty, he felt, to bring the privy council to a firm, irrevocable endorsement of Margaret’s regency, and quash all thoughts of challenge. He sighed. It would be a
long meeting, and no doubt unruly, as the dead king’s will was queried, and his widow’s rights debated. Such talks could turn violent, with fists raised as well as voices, but Paniter,
who was bred to the debating chamber like a pit pony that’s known nothing but the mine shaft, was not daunted.

At the palace, guards were posted like candlesticks on the walls and stood at every gate. He took the narrow staircase up to the inner chamber, where the council was to meet. The way was narrow
so no sword could ever be drawn. His shoulders brushed the walls, and the stairs creaked beneath his weight, but the sound was lost beneath the voices that reached him, as the queen’s
advisors took their seats ahead of the meeting.

Paniter’s steps slowed, and came to a halt. The door of the council chamber was ajar, and he could see the silk sleeve of one lord, the boots and spurs of another. Their voices were low,
but urgent. His breath came roughly, and his head began to spin. He put a hand on the wall, waiting for the weakness to pass. Instead, the dizziness started to roar around his head, and he was back
on Flodden Hill, the conversation around him not that of the court’s council but of James’s advisors, the night before battle. And of those who spoke, he had been loudest.

‘You fool!’ he roared. ‘You must think we are knaves, to ask us to pick them off like flies as they cross the plain. You insult your king by even suggesting it. There will be
no battle, let me tell you, until we face them, eye to eye.’

James put out a hand to quieten him. ‘Enough, Paddy. Let the man speak.’

Robert Borthwick, the master meltar, passed his helmet from hand to hand as he faced the king’s lordly retinue. It was early evening. Flodden Hill was already dusky with driving rain and a
clinging mist out of which the sounds of the English army passing almost beneath their noses chimed and jingled and sighed so loud it might have been a hand’s reach away. No-one spoke as,
from their high vantage point, they watched the smoky shadow of Surrey’s troops move steadily across the fields below.

‘It would appear they are headed for the Merse,’ said James, almost absently. ‘I do believe the old war wolf has lost his taste for battle.’ The relief in his voice was
heard by all.

‘But Your Majesty,’ said Borthwick who, with Paniter was in command of the artillery, ‘this is our time. If we fire on them now, the victory is ours. They wouldnae be able to
withstand it.’ He pointed to the ridge of the hill where his ironmongery stood, barrels trained on the enemy as if they were the fingers of a vengeful god. The guns had been dragged into
position some days past by cattle who would never walk easily again. Now they were embedded, wheels sunk deep in the soil, like the rocks around them. ‘See yon,’ continued Borthwick,
‘the cannon are primed and ready. They’d make mince of them. We’ve enough ammunition for twice the army they’ve got.’

Paniter could not restrain himself. He stepped forward and knocked the helmet from Borthwick’s hand. ‘Coward!’ he hissed. As Borthwick stooped to retrieve his helmet, the
secretary raised his boot, but before he could kick him into the grass, he was dragged off by a stronger hand than his own. ‘By God, you may be right, but you cannot treat him like a
serf.’ It was Alexander, James’s son. ‘He may deserve a beating, but that is not for us to decide.’ Paniter was panting with fury. He swept his pupil’s hand off his
arm, but before he could speak, another voice was raised.