Dacre's War (22 page)

Louise put a hand on his arm. ‘Whether it’s Tom or you, can I come too?’

It took a moment for Crozier to register her meaning. When it did, his scorn was scalding. ‘Have you lost your mind? Do you have the first idea of the danger, the risks you’d run? I would rather put my head in a hangman’s noose than let you roam the borders while there is a war on, let alone allow you to set foot in Foulberry’s place.’ He stared at her as if he were stunned.

‘I only thought . . .’ Tears filled Louise’s eyes, and she would have hurried from the hall before they could spill had Crozier not caught her arm.

‘This is not like you.’ He spoke roughly, but there was concern in his eyes. ‘You should not even be out alone on our own lands this late. I was beginning to worry. What is wrong with you? What is the matter?’

The urge to tell him what Tom had said was overwhelming, but at the sight of his exasperation, the fatigue and worry on his face, she kept quiet. She could not bear to make him angry again, nor create trouble between him and his brother. Telling him would change nothing, except to make things worse. Instead she shook her head, and said she was sorry. ‘Sorry?’ he echoed, sounding surprised. ‘What have you to be sorry about? It is I . . .’ But she was already gone.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

March 1524

It was late afternoon, and a bay horse was galloping through the woods. The rider lay low on its neck, whipping it on until his lashes raised weals. An empty stirrup flailed, the man’s left leg hanging useless, and he gripped the reins less like a horseman and more as if he were drowning.

The bay was toiling, eyes wide with strain, but the man in the saddle was unforgiving. On they raced, beneath a canopy of greening trees, across the border hills. Emerging onto empty moor, they picked up even more speed. Only when they found the cover of forest once more did the pace slacken. But when the turrets of Crozier’s Keep came into view, the rider gave a moan and dug in his spurred boot, goading the horse forward. By the time they reached the walls, both animal and man were done.

Louise was in the kitchens when Hob called her to the gates. On the scrubbed pine table, baked trout sat in a row of jars while she heated butter over the fire to seal it for her larder. Crozier, Tom and Benoit were away, at Foulberry’s bidding, and she was in charge of the keep. From Hob’s voice, she knew at once that trouble had arrived. Clattering the butter pan off the fire, she grabbed a cloth and wiped her greasy hands as she hurried after him. At the gates, Wat the Wanderer was holding the horse’s bridle, but there was no need. The creature was blown, running with sweat and barely able to catch its breath. The man in the saddle was swaying.

‘Help me,’ he said, when Louise appeared, ‘please help me,’ before he slumped onto his horse’s neck, the reins falling from his hands. Wat and the guards dragged him out of the saddle, and laid him on the ground.

‘Bring me water,’ said Louise, kneeling to remove the man’s helmet, and unbuckle the neck of his cloak. At the sight of long scarlet hair, drenched in sweat, she sat back. She knew this man.

‘He’s yin o the regent’s retinue,’ said Hob, raising him so Louise could trickle water into his mouth.

Gulping the water, the soldier opened his eyes to find himself propped up in Hob’s arms. He looked around in confusion. ‘You are safe here,’ said Louise, as if to a child. ‘Drink this. Then we will get you inside.’

‘Will ye look at his leg,’ said Hob, under his breath. The soldier’s knee was twisted to the side, the leg lying askew like the limb of a puppet whose strings have been cut.

‘It’s broken,’ she said.

Hob nodded. ‘Aye, and badly.’

Gesturing to the guards, Louise followed as they carried the young man into the keep. ‘Take him to the men’s quarters,’ she said, but as she spoke the soldier raised his head.

‘No!’ he wailed. ‘They’re after me. If they find me lying there, they’ll kill me for sure!’

Louise’s heart began to pound. ‘Who is after you? What have you done?’ But the effort of speaking had sent the soldier back into a swoon.

Hob took her elbow. ‘Get him into the hall. We need to keep him conscious.’

Louise ran ahead of the guards to find a blanket. Old Crozier was dozing by the fire, the wolf warming his feet. He woke with a start as she brushed past him, and blinked at the sight of the stranger being carried in like a corpse. He put a hand on the wolf’s head, to keep him quiet. The dog’s hackles stirred, but he made no sound. When the soldier was stretched on the settle, and a rug folded under his head, Hob knelt beside him, and lit a bouquet of crows’ feathers under his nose. At the foul smell, the young man awoke, twisting his head away from the stench, but though it made him want to retch it had cleared his senses. ‘They’ll be here any minute,’ he said, his foreign accent sharpened with alarm.

‘Who?’ Louise repeated.

He looked at her, wide-eyed. ‘The border guards, from Selkirk. They chased me out of the town. The town’s people had cornered me and two were setting on me with clubs when the guard arrived . . .’ He paused for breath, and wiped a cold sweat from his lip. ‘They broke my leg, but with the good Lord’s help I got onto my horse . . .’

‘Where are the rest of the regent’s men?’ asked Hob, keeping the smouldering feathers near the soldier’s chin.

His head sank back on the blanket. ‘I have deserted,’ he said. ‘Albany will have me hanged if they find me.’ At the sight of his listeners’ shock, he gripped Louise’s sleeve. ‘It is a very long story. Please, madame, please hurry! They will almost be at the doors. You must hide me, or I am dead.’

The man was a deserter, and maybe worse, yet Louise had no hesitation. She turned to Hob. ‘Take his horse out by the postern gate and down to the back field, so he’s not in the stable when they get here.’ He left, at a run. She looked at Wat and the guards, who stood by the fire. ‘We shall hide him behind the walls. You know where I mean?’ Wat nodded, and was bending to lift him when shouts came from the gates.

A guard ran out into the courtyard, and was back in a moment. ‘They’re here,’ he yelled from the door.

‘Keep them out,’ cried Louise. ‘They cannot be allowed to force their way in.’ She turned to Wat, her voice rising with fear. ‘It’s too late to hide him. Go back to the walls. They have no right to gain entry without Crozier’s authority.’

Swords in hand, the guards left. Louise looked at the soldier, who had closed his eyes in despair, knowing the end was near. ‘What is your name?’ she said.

‘Antoine. Antoine d’Echelles.’

‘From now on, say not a word in English. You are my French cousin,
comprenez-vous
?’

He gave a feeble nod.

There was the sound of feet from the stairwell, and Ella appeared in the hall, three of her children scampering around her skirts. The fourth was in her arms, sucking a rag, his eyes sleepy from crying. Louise put a hand to her head, to calm herself, but even before Ella had taken in the scene, she had begun issuing orders.

It was only a matter of minutes before the courtyard filled with voices and the tread of boots. The Selkirk guards had barged their way into the keep.

Throwing the door back on its hinges, they entered the hall. Five men, in black leather and steel helmets, brandishing swords, stood at the top of the steps. At sight of the hall below, they were brought up short.

Around the table, a family dinner was being eaten. An old man, two women, and a young gentleman sat dandling spoons over pots of steaming fish. Ale mugs were half empty, the meal well under way. A scattering of wooden platters and crumbled bread told of children who had eaten their fill. Heedless of the adults, two boys and their sister raced around the room, human bees whose buzz would have driven the Selkirk men crazy in a smaller space. A large dog sat on his haunches between the old man and the young. His blue eyes followed the guards, but he did not move. A moment earlier, Louise had placed the wolf at the soldier’s side, with the command to stand guard over him, and there he would stay until ordered otherwise. The children were also under instruction, urged to be as boisterous and rude as they liked. They could not believe their luck. Even the infant, in his mother’s lap, found himself a role. Ella had given him an old horn, which he was banging against a tin plate as if to raise the dead.

Louise, seated at the head of the table, rose in outrage at their arrival. ‘Guards! Guards!’ she cried. ‘See off these barbarians!’

Wat and his men appeared at the stairhead. ‘Mistress,’ said Wat, breathlessly, ‘they would not be kept out.’

Crossing the hall, as the border guards descended the stairs, Louise stared up at them. ‘By what right do you enter these premises?’ she asked, her voice shaking. ‘Who are you? What is your business?’

The leader of the posse would not allow himself to be thwarted by any woman, however outraged. ‘We have reason to believe you are harbouring a fugitive from justice,’ he said, removing his helmet in the hope that might dampen her fury.

She said not a word, merely raising her eyebrows in disbelief.

A man at the leader’s back pushed forward. ‘There is a heretic on the loose, and his trail has led us here. Unless he somehow turned himself into a bird and has flown off, he is in the keep, whether you know it or not. He was badly lamed. He cannot have gone any further.’

Emboldened by the deputy’s confident tone, the officers moved towards Louise. ‘We have the right to search the keep and its buildings,’ said the leader, holding her stare. ‘By statute of the warden of the middle march, we can demand entrance to any property we suspect of sheltering someone who threatens the country. If you were the regent himself, we would be within the law in crossing your threshold.’

‘You do not have that right,’ she replied with contempt, ‘and well you know it. You cannot intimidate me with talk of laws. I may be a woman but I am not a fool. With my husband absent, and without my permission, you have no authority to be here. This is trespass. You are breaking the law.’

‘Goodwife . . .’ began the guard, but she cut him off.

‘And why would we, of all people, be suspected of harbouring a heretic?’ she asked, on a rising note of indignation.

‘We don’t . . .’

‘We are all good Christians in this house. And like all good believers, here you find us, at our Sunday devotions. That you burst through our gates on the Lord’s Day makes me question how devout you and your men can be.’ She made the sign of the cross, warding off the presence of such ill-doers the way healers sniff herbs to protect them from the plague.

The children were running in whooping circles around the group, pretending they were corralling sheep, and Louise was obliged to raise her voice. ‘You have disturbed a sacred family meal, officer, all the more precious as we approach the days of our Lord’s Passion. Should you not also be at home examining your souls?’ She fingered the rosary at her waist, examining the well-worn beads while she waited for an answer.

The guard coughed. ‘Madam, we are obliged to work all days of the week. If a man commits an act of heresy on the Lord’s day of rest, we cannot let it pass. For breaking this holy day his crime is thereby doubled, and his punishment with it.’

Louise smiled, the way a dog bares its teeth. ‘Well, as you can see, we have nothing to hide.’

There was silence, each side weighing the other. If Louise had hoped the men would back down, she was to be disappointed. Planted before her, uncertain but still suspicious, they stood their ground. ‘If you do not let us conduct our search,’ said the leader, when it seemed Louise had no more to say, ‘such obstruction would be viewed very seriously by the march warden, law or no law. In recent years he has had reason to doubt the loyalty of people in these ungoverned parts. You’d be wise to give him no further grounds for suspicion.’

Louise gave an irritated sigh. ‘Very well,’ she said, as if the last thing she wished was to displease the warden. ‘My husband will no doubt chastise me severely when he hears about this, but you have my permission to examine the keep and its outbuildings. But be quick about it. He will be home soon.’ She looked the officer in the eye, a nasty glint in hers. ‘He is a reasonable man, but he does not like intruders. The last such, a miserable pack of thieves’ – she turned to Old Crozier, who nodded at the imaginary memory – ‘never left the keep. Their remains lie in the pit, behind the midden.’

With a harried air, the Selkirk guards set out through the keep, Wat and his men so close on their tails they might have been shackled. Only Hob remained in the hall, standing motionless in the gloom at the foot of the stairs. The French soldier’s horse was grazing safely, his harness and saddle stowed at the back of the stables.

While two officers searched outdoors and two the keep itself, one remained posted in the great hall. Louise gripped her hands together, to hide their trembling. Seeing her expression, Ella’s daughter Emily stopped playing and ran up to her. Before the child could speak, Louise crouched, smiling. ‘On you go, poppet,’ she said, and clapped her hands, sending the child back to her whirling games, though her cheeks were ruby and her legs growing tired.

Ella poured ale into a mug and held it out to Louise, who sipped it slowly in the hope of steadying her heartbeat. As she handed it back, the women shared a look.

The guard caught the silent exchange. He shifted, eyes narrowing and, after a second’s hesitation, strolled towards the table, to get a better look at the languorous young man whose back was to the room, his face half hidden by the brim of his black felt hat.

Louise put a hand on the young soldier’s shoulder.
‘Antoine, mon ami, est-ce que tu veux un morceau de fromage
?’ she asked him gaily. Turning to the guard, she explained. ‘Our goat’s cheese can rival even that from Antoine’s homeland.’ She repeated her words in French, and Antoine dutifully gave a gasp that might have passed for a laugh. Shaking his head, he replied at length. Louise translated. ‘My cousin disagrees. He says he cannot bear cheese from Scotland, it is more sour than raw rhubarb. But our ale, he admits, is good.’ She topped up his mug, and he drank it down in great gulping draughts that proved the truth of his remarks. Taking a cloth to his face, as if to wipe his lips, the young man contrived also to dry the sweat that was trickling down his neck.

Beneath the table, Antoine’s leg was propped on a stool. On his lap lay a rug, to shield his canted limb from any casual eye. As the guard drew closer, Antoine looked over his shoulder. Removing his hat, he turned a curious gaze on the man, as if amused at his interest, and offered him a clear view of his face. At Antoine’s side, the wolf’s gaze was every bit as intent. A low growl tickled his throat. If the guard came a step closer he would leap.