Dacre's War (28 page)

When he had reached the other side, the messengers followed him down the bank and entered the water, bridles in one hand, rope in the other. Though the leader’s mare reared in alarm as she slithered on the rocks, he kept her in line, tugging her in his wake as if she were weightless. In a shower of water she reached the far bank and scrambled to safety, and the others obediently followed.

Dripping, the three men squelched after their guide. They could smell logfires, but not until they were almost upon the settlement did they see the roof it came from. Covered in turf and earth so they could not be set alight, their cousins’ houses were low and squat, walls deep as a castle’s, and as thickly mortared, so they would not easily be smoked out. From the door of one house the next was invisible, hidden by banks of mossed earth and tightly packed trees, yet so close that a shout would bring people running.

This was the heart of Tynedale, the dread fold of the Armstrongs’ cousins, outlaws all under their leader Black Ned. Few outsiders got as far as this; most were cut down, shot, or cudgelled in the forest’s first mile, its hurdles slowing intruders to a crawl, when they could be picked off by ambush like dinner for the pot.

Black Ned sat by his fireside, a rosy-cheeked child on his knee. When the outriders appeared, he set the boy down and grunted a greeting, ignoring the child’s girning. He did not get up, but his wife brought them ale, and they sat on the earthen floor, beneath Black Ned’s gaze, feeling like children themselves.

‘We’re on the march again?’ asked the outlaw, his scarlet beard brighter in the windowless room than his sluggish fire. Black was his father’s name, and the son’s temper, and no one was ever allowed to forget it. His wife kept her eyes low as she served their visitors, and fingered her skirts as she stood aside, awaiting further orders.

‘Aye,’ said the leader, ‘and a guid raid it’ll be, if all goes well. All ae us will be able to lie up for months, if we get what we’re owed. Dacre’s paying, but so will plenty of the houses and churches we pass on the way.’ He rubbed his hands, palms slippery with greed.

‘Been a while since we’ve had a good ride,’ said Black Ned. ‘I can bring something nice home for May, isn’t that right?’ he asked, without turning his head. ‘Something to make ye look sweet and bonny.’

His wife murmured her appreciation. ‘Can’t hear ye,’ said the outlaw. ‘Jist the scrabble o’ mice running over the dinner table. Leastwise, I don’t know how else to explain the sour taste to most things ye’re cooking these days.’ He turned to his visitors, and raised his shoulders as if perplexed. ‘And they wonder why sometimes we dinnae come hame, eh?’

With the message delivered, the Armstrongs stretched their legs before the sizzling logs, watching their britches steam while wildfowl roasted on the spit, and the daughters of the house poured them a fiery home-made brew. The wife disappeared to another corner, where she could be heard scrubbing the table, and her pots.

Before the guests rose the next morning, the Tynedalers were already up, sharpening their arrows with flint, and reshoeing their ponies for the raid that lay ahead. Two days later, with the Armstrong outriders barely keeping up, Black Ned led his men out of the forest and onto the moors, the thunder of their hooves more alarming to those who heard them passing than the worst of winter storms.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Louise touched Old Crozier’s bristled face, and hung her head in sorrow. Like an effigy in the village church, he lay under his sheet with nose and feet pointed at the rafters. His hands had tightened to a dead bird’s claws, and his mouth was sunken, as if to prevent his uttering a word, should he wake. But Louise doubted he ever would. His breath was no more than a whisper, his ribs lifting so little one might have thought him a corpse.

It was early evening, and Antoine’s shift would soon begin. Several days had passed since the Frenchman had first applied his salve, and there had been no change that Louise could see. Every morning and nightfall, when she and Antoine washed the old man, his body seemed to grow lighter. Much longer like this and he would be ready for his shroud.

She trimmed the tallow lamps ahead of Antoine’s arrival. Warmed by an afternoon’s sun the room felt dusty as a coop, and she opened the shutters to let in a gasp of summer air. As she did so there was a flash at the window and in flew a swallow, whirling around the ceiling until it alighted on a beam, from where it looked down on Old Crozier with bobbing tail.

At that moment his eyes opened, drawn, it seemed, by the bird. Louise gave a cry, which set the swallow circling again, before settling this time above the fireplace. ‘Grandpa,’ she whispered, crouching by his side. ‘Can you hear me? It’s Louise.’

His eyes followed the bird and his lips parted, though only air escaped.

‘Grandpa?’ Louise touched his hand, which opened enough to clasp her finger. The old man dragged his gaze back to her face, and closed his eyes. A shuddering sigh left his body, but as Louise looked on in horror, thinking he had breathed his last, his lungs filled again and he began to breathe, slow but deep, his chest moving like a pair of rusty bellows. By the time she had summoned Crozier there was a hint of colour in the old man’s cheeks. Though he was once more unconscious, a sere tongue licked his mouth as she wetted it with ale, and when she held the sponge to his lips, he sucked like a lamb at its mother’s teat.

Arriving in time to see his grandfather turn his head aside and settle into sleep, Crozier gripped Louise’s shoulder, not trusting himself to speak. Antoine was close behind him, standing breathless in the doorway.

‘He is asleep now,’ said Louise, ‘but he was awake, properly, for the first time.’

Antoine knelt by the pallet and felt the old man’s wrist. ‘Stronger,’ he murmured, as he picked up his stick and got to his feet. ‘Do not be too hopeful yet,’ he cautioned, but the look on his face said otherwise.

It was a week before Old Crozier could do more than sip from a tumbler and lie watching shadows cross the walls. When finally he could sit up and talk, he had no idea how ill he had been, nor for how long. ‘Summer’s passing gey fast,’ he would say, bemused each morning by the time he had lost, not understanding where it had gone. The day he asked for a second serving of soup a shout went up in the courtyard, and the guards raised their tankards at dinner, in toast to their old friend.

With Old Crozier’s recovery, the keep came back to life. It was as if an enchantment had been lifted, a household frozen in silence finding its voice once more. The old clatter and cries restored, only Adam remained quiet and withdrawn, going about his business with a preoccupied air, as if his mind were far away. Of what, or whom, he was thinking Louise could not tell, though she feared she knew the answer.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

August 1524

Trouble kept the Vice Warden tied to the marches that summer. In a locked casket in his cellar lay the signed accusations against Dacre, and Eure thought on them often. By now he had hoped to have delivered them to his king, along with a detailed personal denunciation of the baron’s criminal habits. But as if the fates were mocking him, he had been obliged to spend the past few months under Dacre’s eye, as the English highlanders got out of control, and the Scots wreaked havoc on the middle and eastern marches and Henry, infuriated at the borderers’ incessant roiling, sent the Duke of Norfolk north to handle affairs, and in so doing made things worse.

Arrogant and impatient, the hard-bitten soldier fanned the flames. Not literally, though he had tried. Eure heard that when the old campaigner begged the king’s permission to use fire against the rebels, Henry’s response had been chilling. ‘They are our subjects, though evil men,’ he had said, the quietness of his voice signalling the severity of his displeasure. As he picked a ragged fingernail, he lifted his eyes to the duke’s. ‘We do rather desire their reformation than their utter destruction.’ Norfolk, as a result, was hamstrung, unable to turn the rebels’ favourite weapon against them, and obliged to face them hand to hand, in so doing losing countless of his own men who, at the sight of the rebels bearing down upon them, blazing torches in hand, felt their bowels go slack, as well as their sword arms.

Now, with some of the king’s finest servants murdered in raids or reprisals, the Scots in control of the middle border after carrying off and killing the Keeper of Tynedale, and the west as ungovernable as ever, tempers and fear were high.

These weeks, however, had been useful. If anything were needed to strengthen the Vice Warden’s resolve in denouncing the baron, it was the unavoidable conclusion that Dacre was working as closely with Scottish outlaws as with himself. The Armstrongs were his bodyguard, human mastiffs who snarled and slavered at any who came close to the baron, and were sent out across the border on his command, like a swarm of hornets. Their name alone was enough to quell those who had thought to resist Dacre’s rule, and the Warden General dropped it as a witch delivers a curse. Towns and properties a hundred miles south of the border thus lay in his palm, and few dared retaliate or whine when their houses were picked clean, or their fields and byres torched.

Summer drew to its height, and with the approach of harvest the borders fell quiet. As if mirroring their betters, the raiders’ fury was dampened. With the news that the young King James was about to take control of his country, albeit with the help of his council, plans were being put in place for a peace treaty between the English and the Scots. The terms would include an assurance from the Scots that the Duke of Albany would never be allowed to rule there again, and that regular meetings between march officers on both sides of the border would be put in place, to ensure that those harmed by raids were properly compensated.

Sensing the mood, and the danger a formal peace would pose for them, raiders and rebels paused to remuster and rethink. Those relieved at the unexpected calm reminded themselves that it was probably no more than a lull before the raiding season began in earnest, when newly filled barns would be emptied or burned. In these parts it was said that those whose harvest was untouched by the end of Michaelmas were either able to afford well-armed guards or in Dacre’s pay – or lay within reach of the Tynedale gangs, who would ride out regardless of moon or month.

Sir William Eure watched the wheat ripen. As green turned to yellow and then to gold, his face lightened. When the first teams of sicklers made their way through the fields, he knew the wait was over and he could leave. Dacre was being kept as close to Norfolk’s side as if he were on leading reins. All summer the English court relayed messages to James V’s guardians in Scotland, craving meetings and contracts and safe passes as the war came to an end. Negotiations dragged, and Dacre was distracted and tired. In a lull between active hostilities, and while the Warden General was stationed in Berwick, to await the Scottish court’s contingent, Eure saddled up and with his manservant took the road to London.

August in the north had been fresh, kept cool with rain and wind. South of York they encountered a sun they had rarely seen, bearing down on them as if it were a warming pan held over their heads. With heat rising from the dust under their horses’ hooves, they were roasted top to toe. When they reached London, ten days later, they were sunburned and parched, grit between their teeth, and their hose and boots sodden with sweat. Arriving at the city walls near nightfall, they took beds in an inn by the river, so close to the water they could hear ferrymen’s oars sculling under their window and the whining wingbeat of swans coming in to land.

There was no time to enjoy the city. Rising early the next morning, Eure stood under the yard pump to wash off the journey with water drawn straight from the Thames, put on a clean shirt, and swallowed a plate of oysters and a pitcher of ale. A little later he presented himself at Westminster Palace, and learned that the king had left for the country. He and his retinue would not be back until the outbreak of plague had passed.

Dismayed, the Vice Warden clutched his leather bag to his chest. He had not anticipated this. In time of war, what king would abandon his court? And surely he was safe from disease in the seclusion of one of his city palaces?

As if in reply, the lackey fingered his silver buttons and, with a gratifyingly low bow, asked him to wait. A tray of wine and biscuits was brought to him as he sat under a window, and Eure took comfort from this, as he sipped and nibbled and watched the sun rise towards noon behind the leaded panes, warming the flagstones at his feet as if toasting a slice of bread.

There was a flash of scarlet at the edge of the hall, and a stout figure billowed towards him, slippers squeaking beneath his robes, his face as red as his garb. ‘Your eminence,’ said Eure, rising hurriedly and bending his knee as he recognised the cardinal.

‘Sir William,’ replied Wolsey, with a magisterial curl of his hand, ‘if you will kindly follow me.’

The room Wolsey ushered him into was mercifully cool, shutters dimming the sun, stone walls exuding a perpetual chill. ‘Take a seat, I beg you,’ said his host, settling himself on a chest draped in a length of carpet and pointing Eure to a stool on the other side of the empty hearth.

The cardinal cocked his head, and waited for his guest to speak. Eure looked around the room, at the desk spread with papers, the ceiling painted with biblical scenes. He swallowed, suddenly aware of the act he was about to commit. He looked at the Lord Chancellor. Was that kindness or calculation in his watery eye?

Wolsey coughed, and adjusted his sleeve. When still the Vice Warden would not begin, he gave a low laugh. ‘Forgive me, you must be thirsty on a day such as this. Would a glass of wine be agreeable?’

Eure nodded, and once it was in his hand drained it off and held it out for more. Wolsey masked his surprise at northern manners and refilled it. Disdain, however, was soon trumped by stronger emotions as, his tongue loosened, the Vice Warden poured out his story with barely a stammer before taking the incriminating evidence out of his bag, and laying it on the table. Silence filled the room as Wolsey turned over the letters, reading the accusations fast, but lingering on the signatures of men who would not dare lie. Drawing a deep breath, the cardinal poured a fresh glass of wine with an unsteady hand, and threw it back in one.

The Vice Warden had long since departed, assured of the cardinal’s resolve to investigate the charges. Wolsey sat at his desk, staring at his knuckles. The summer evening refused to wane. He longed for night, and darkness. Eventually, with a sigh, he pulled open a drawer and laid upon his table a travel-worn letter bearing the Bishop of Carlisle’s seal. The bishop repeated, as if it were a chant, the accusations Eure had dropped in his lap. His belligerent letter had lain untouched since the previous month, Wolsey catching a whiff of score-settling. He had never trusted the bishop, with his mock piety and sanctimonious smile. Now, however, he would be obliged to address his claims, and put Dacre in the dock.

His lips thinned. As the Warden General’s staunchest champion, more so even than Norfolk, his position was precarious. Following his denunciation he must dance across the hot coals of open justice, while yet saving face before a king who had no mercy on those he deemed incompetent or partial. If Dacre were proved guilty, Wolsey’s judgement would be questioned.

That sweltering August night was short, dawn coming too soon for a city that yearned for coolth, but for the sleepless cardinal, who passed it at his desk, it seemed as if it would never end.