Dacre's War (31 page)

He raised his voice. ‘Anyone wishing to inspect the manner in which I run the court is most welcome to examine those books, and put Rayner on the stand, under oath. The catalogue of punishments handed down, and their severity, will make the keepers of the Tower of London look like bleeding hearts. I doubt you will find a better run establishment north of York. Nor,’ he added with a dark smile, ‘is it probable that any magistrate digs so deep into his own pocket to make reparation to the victims. In my time, I tell ye, I have doled out money to smallholders for their stolen flocks, tenants for their ruined barns, innkeeepers for loss of trade at the hands of reivers. Hundreds upon hundreds of pounds it has cost me, none of it repaid by the Exchequer or the king, though it is their business I have been conducting.’ He gave a sigh. ‘But it was ever thus, eh? Only a man made of flint could have done less. Those lands, and their people, are my own. I could not watch them suffer, and do naught about it.’

He turned to the windows, which were blackening as evening descended, as if they might offer a glimpse of home. Then he straightened, and faced the dais, his face grey and slack. He put a hand to his cheek, its warmth a reminder that he was not yet a dead man. Where blood was pumping, there was still hope.

‘As for the neighbourhood turning to crime because it is their only option, I would laugh in your faces, if I did not risk being accused of contempt.’ Taking a step towards his audience, he spread his arms, more like an actor on the boards than a man fighting to save his reputation. ‘In the Lord’s name, I ask are any of ye acquainted with my part of the country?’

Heads were shaken as he returned to grasp his chair. ‘I thought not. Well, let me tell ye. Most of these people come out of the womb hungrier to commit a crime than for their mother’s milk. They are natural liars and thieves and killers. Spend a month in their company, my lords, and you would dismiss each and every denunciation that lies before ye this day as the work of fantasy or malice. Then ye could send me back to do what I wager is one of the most difficult and least enviable jobs in the land.’

The cardinal was on his feet, sensing the baron was rousing his listeners to sympathy. ‘Steady yourself, my lord. You must remain calm, otherwise I must call a halt to proceedings.’

‘Calm?’ The baron looked at Wolsey as if he were a midsummer fool. ‘Would you be calm in the face of such provocation? When everything ye have ever done is cast into doubt by a parcel of ill-doers whose only desire is for mischief ?’

‘My lords,’ said the cardinal, turning to the table, ‘we will adjourn for the day.’

Dacre raised a hand. ‘No,’ he said wearily. ‘I ask ye not to do that. I will continue, with your permission.’

There was a hush as Wolsey stared at the baron’s flushed face, his awkward leg and evident exhaustion. ‘Very well,’ he said at last. ‘But no more excitement. We have not judged you guilty, as you seem to believe. This is your time to rebut all the charges levelled against you. You have many friends and allies here, who wish only to see matters set straight. So, pray, continue. But gently.’

Dacre gave a grunt, which the cardinal chose to read as compliance, and settled his cloak around his shoulders. Reading the next item on his list, he snorted. ‘Ha! We have reached the Bishop of Carlisle, and his sleeve of woes.’

The cardinal leaned across the table. ‘Be careful, my friend. The Bishop is a man of God. His word cannot be cast aside as lightly as the others.’

‘No,’ replied the baron, with unexpected humility. ‘I would agree with ye there. And in this instance, the bishop’s grievances are, I am obliged to admit, not entirely unfounded. To be fair, he’s absolutely right. He refers, I believe, to a most unfortunate incident in which – at first, at least – I consider myself blameless.’

The baron explained to his listeners that he had granted the Liddesdale Armstrongs a licence for Carlisle market day. It was a common enough concession to Scots from near the border, and greatly beneficial, he generally found, to the town’s trade.

‘But on one occasion, things got out of hand. A breakaway party, the younger riders, thought it would be a lark to raid a village near the border on their way home from the market. The place was near Lanercost, more of a hamlet than a village, and barely a soul in it. But they found cattle enough for their purposes, and drove off with them. And then’ – Dacre paused before continuing – ‘and then they added the farmer’s daughter to their spoils, and dragged her off as well. It was some days before they returned to Liddesdale, with the girl slung over a horse. She was alive, but only just.’

The baron’s voice took on a different tone. ‘Poor lass. None of us here who has a daughter can imagine what that was like for her father. And so – and this is where my testimony contradicts the bishop’s, which he no doubt had second hand – and so . . .’ Reluctant to finish his sentence, Dacre rubbed his chin. ‘Aye, it was nasty. I will not dwell on the punishment – only to say it was bloody – but those five lads will never father children, nor ride in comfort again. The young woman was quickly found and returned to her family, and the clan paid them handsomely for the losses of goods, and the suffering of their girl. If money can make recompense for such an ordeal.’

The tribunal shifted, disturbed and fascinated by the story from a part of the country that seemed as far away and unimaginable as the moon.

‘Such was the evil act, which I was swift to avenge, on which the bishop judges me. And he is right in regard to my not imprisoning the culprits, and letting them off – as you might say – unscathed. In a case of this nature, I find that mutilation acts as a deterrent far more powerful than gaol or even death.’

A murmur of assent could be heard from the table, but at a glance from Wolsey his associates fell silent.

Long into the evening, Dacre’s denials continued. The tribunal was delighted to see such a man cut the ground from beneath the Lord Chancellor’s slithery, slippered feet. Outwardly, its members avoided the cardinal’s eye, and sipped their wine. Inwardly, they stamped their heels, as if on Wolsey’s grave.

The tower clock was striking ten when Dacre drew to a close. Only Blackbird saw his unsteady hands and noted the stiffened leg, which could not now be bent. Night blanketed the windows, and the Star Chamber flickered under torchlight from the sconces on the walls and a candle on the tribunal’s table. A low conversation began among members of the group, but ceased as Wolsey stood to face the baron.

‘You have mounted a most admirable defence, my lord. I commend your fluency, and your memory. I trust tomorrow you can repeat the task, and the day after that.’ He gave a thin smile. ‘There are many further accusations to be dealt with, but we have time for only one more before we close for the day.’ His drew his hands into his sleeves and faced Dacre like an emperor from the east, his eyes unreadable in the light of the candle before him. The baron sat forward, readying himself for what was to come.

‘As you have already heard, my lord, it is alleged that you consort with Scots to a degree that throws your loyalty to the crown in doubt. You have answered those charges well, and I for one am ready to believe your innocence.’ Wolsey’s tone faltered, in a rare moment of uncertainty, and he half turned towards the tribunal as he continued, ‘However, I am now obliged to break the tradition of this court, which relies most commonly on written evidence, because in this case the accuser cannot write, and does not trust any clerk to take his dictation.’

There was a shifting from the table behind him, as their lordships’ wandering attention was caught. The cardinal make a gesture to the doorman, who left, returning shortly with a strapping, unkempt young man, who took off his hat at the sight of the chamber, letting a lock of lank red hair fall over his eyes.

‘Your name, sir?’ Wolsey asked.

‘Andrew Robson, of Fa’side.’

‘That being where, precisely?’

‘Ten mile west of Harbottle, the baron’s castle in the middle march.’

‘And why do you come before us today?’

‘To see justice done.’ Robson fixed his eye on Dacre, and the baron felt his chest grow tight. He had never seen this man before, but there was a malevolence in his face that could not be feigned.

‘Tell your story, please,’ said the cardinal, resuming his seat.

‘Aye, well, it is simple enough.’ Robson spread his feet and put his hands on his hips, like a boy spoiling for a fight. ‘This man here does not deserve to be called an Englishman. He may be a lord, but he has no right to the title.’

‘Come to the point, sir,’ said the cardinal, rapping the table.

‘Right, I will then.’ He glowered at Dacre.

‘A year ago he let thirty filthy Scots murderers out of his prison, at Harbottle. Opened the doors, dropped gold in their hands, and all but kissed them goodbye.’

‘How do you know this?’

‘Because I wis one o’ them. Or he thought I wis. I’d been banged up for theft and assault. Fair enough, I’d broken a guard’s head the night afore – he’d caught me trapping rabbits – but when his lordship unlocked the gate, and ushered us out, was I going to complain?

‘But here’s what I don’t like,’ he continued, a grin smeared over his face like grease, ‘Dacre here telt the Scots bastards he was in their debt. I heard him say that, loud and clear as a bell. What does that mean, eh? I’ll tell ye. That the man is a traitor. It’s plain as day. His head should be on a pike.’

There was a cry from one of the tribunal, a flutter of dismay. Then the Lord High Treasurer stood, gripping the table to keep himself steady.

‘Boy,’ he said, his voice wavery as his legs, ‘have you been paid for this most damning testimony? Has gold been put in your hand?’

‘Too right,’ the young man replied. ‘Would I come all the way down here for nowt? But that proves nothing. I know whit ye’re thinking, I’m just a sneak, paid to lie. But I’m not. I could tell you a lot more about this baron, if you wis interested. So could any of us in Redesdale. Everything I have just told you is the truth, I swear to God.’

He looked around the room, knowing he held their eye. ‘The men in Harbottle gaol were cousins, the lot of them. By the name of Armstrong. Black Ned was their leader. Ye’ll have heard o’ him, no doubt. Killed a Scottish warden and his gaolers at Jedburgh yin time, not to mention hundreds of us. There’s been a warrant out on his head on both sides of the border the past few years.’ He folded his arms, and looked at the baron. ‘So what’s the Warden General doing letting him go? That’s what I want to know.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

October 1524

Dacre lay in the rushlit gloom, eyes upon the rafters. The Thames hurried past beyond the open window, but rather than lull him to sleep the sound carried him back to his youth, and a confinement far worse than this. It was the autumn of 1488, and he had been sent to the Fleet prison, where the river became his constant companion. As he listened to the water washing through the darkness and into the night, the baron was once more a young man, his vigour and arrogance no defence against the terrors that incarceration brought.

Nothing of that time was forgotten. He recalled how the river had seeped into his clothes, his food and his dreams. In the first few days after the key turned in the lock behind him and the bolts were thrown, the stench of oily water and tidal slime made his stomach roil. The cell’s walls glistened, as if from the poisonous breath that crept under the iron door and through the shuttered bars. A hand put to the bare bricks came away damp and smelling of rot. Some nights he caught a whiff of putrid flesh, borne downstream at a doleful pace. Whether it was a corpse, a dead cat, or merely butchers’ scraps, he did not care to know. He pulled his cloak over his nose and turned to the wall, hoping for a cleansing breeze to freshen the air. Weeks later, it had yet to appear.

After Christmas came the cold. London turned white and brittle under frost and snow, and though the prisoner’s meagre ration of coal did no more than melt the icicles on the low ceiling, he did not complain. The chill had cleared the air. As he rubbed his knuckles and stamped his feet, he found his appetite. Wolfing the bread and broth his servant brought each evening, he longed for ale and lark pies, for roasted boar and hot-smoked eels, but such fare was not allowed in this place. Each day his ribs lost an ounce more fat, in time growing as taut to the touch as the bars at his needle-thin window.

Like all the Fleet’s inmates, he was given only a single rushlight each day, and in the long, dim hours of a winter’s afternoon he allowed himself no illumination other than from the open shutters, despite the freezing air. Not until the heart of the night, when the prisoners had settled and even the city had hushed, did he light the taper. Nursing it from draughts, in case it burned too fast, he lay on his pallet, staring into the flickering flame. In its smoky orange glow he caught glimpses of his home, so far from here it might have been another country. As the reed melted lower, his heartbeat quickened. When it guttered and sizzled into sightless silence, he screwed his eyes tight, as if to fool himself that the dark was only in his head. But the lack of light pressed in on him, enclosing as a velvet hood, and by the time dawn crept into the cell his nails had bitten into his palms, and his face was clammy with sweat.

Now, almost an old man, he was again lathered, heart thumping, throat thick with fear. With a great effort he turned his mind from the prison cell he was sure was once more awaiting him, but the thoughts that took its place were of no comfort. Instead of the Fleet, he was once more in the Star Chamber.

Who the devil had found and paid Robson for his story? Wolsey had refused to answer that. Dismissing the boy, who had spat at Dacre’s feet as he left, the cardinal had insisted no questions could be answered since the day’s business was now ended, and the court in recess for the night. But Dacre could not get the image of Robson’s vengeful face out of his mind. He was damned if a cur like that would bring him to his knees.

Blackbird was whiffling softly in his sleep when the baron got out of bed and, fumbling for a flint, lit a fresh taper to replace the one smoking by his side. As the shadows faded, he got back under the blanket and continued his contemplation of the beams above their heads.

Robson’s evidence must be fabricated. He had been careful, that night. None but Armstrongs had been in his gaol. The risk he had taken had been great, but he would have noticed a stranger, one different from the rest. Would he not?

The thought he might have made a slip gnawed at him. It was possible, he supposed, that this lout had been thrown into the cell shortly before the Armstrongs arrived. All but Dacre’s most trusted guards were unaware of the baron’s plans. When he freed the outlaws, it was on the pretence that they were being conveyed to Morpeth prison under cover of dark. That Harbottle’s guard had fallen into an ambush on their way there, and the gang set free by their comrades, was a believable enough tale. After all, it happened all the time.

Dacre sighed, and closed his eyes. His duel with Wolsey would recommence in a few hours. He must rest, even if his mind would not. For a long while it seemed the rumpus in his head would never quieten, but soothed by the lamp, and the first chirping of birds, the baron finally slept.

The Star Chamber was in a different mood that morning, and Blackbird sensed it at once. Wolsey was tense, his expression rigid, and the tribunal fidgeted and fussed. Bringing Robson before them last night had been like tossing a hawk into a dovecot. Everyone’s feathers had been ruffled, and this morning there would be blood on the floor, though whose it was too early to tell.

Dacre alone seemed unperturbed. There was a gleam in his eye that boded ill for Wolsey, but he leaned back in his chair as if he were weary, and age taking its toll.

‘So then,’ began the cardinal, ‘we heard Andrew Robson’s deposition last night. You have had twelve hours in which to prepare your defence, my lord. What do you have to say?’

Dacre got to his feet slowly. ‘My lords, I say two things to ye.’ He gripped the back of his chair, and lifted his chin. ‘The first, that I utterly refute Robson’s accusations, which are as mendacious as they are malicious. The man is a villain, as was plain to us all. If he has had the insolence to put his miserable cross on that statement we heard, he should be tried for perjury.’ He coughed, and looked at the members on the dais, finding no hint of disagreement on any face but Wolsey’s.

‘But the second, perhaps more important, is that allowing Robson to give testimony in person is a blatant violation of the laws of this court. To entertain his verbal deposition would be to set a precedent which could ultimately overturn the Star Chamber’s authority. I am shocked the Lord Chancellor would entertain such an idea, and wonder if, on closer consideration, he will see the difficulties this might cause him at a future date, long after my case, and I myself, are dead and buried. I beg him to be wise, and rethink his use of this vexatious and ultimately irrelevant piece of evidence.’

‘Do not presume to tell me what I can and cannot do in my own court,’ Wolsey said, spitting the words out like teeth. ‘Be assured, Robson’s statement falls within the rules. If you cannot or will not answer his accusation, you will suffer gravely.’

‘Very well,’ replied Dacre, unruffled, ‘as you see fit.’ He pointed to the chair. ‘If you will permit me?’ Wolsey gave an impatient nod, and the baron resumed his seat. ‘I find I cannot stand as well as I once did, and my reply will not be swift. If one of ye could bring me water, please, before I begin.’

For the rest of the morning he had the chamber to himself. Relaxed as a fireside storyteller passing a winter’s night, he painted a portrait of the English marches that sent shivers running up the spines of his listeners. Even the clerks who took down his statement would pause at his grisliest tales, pens aloft in disbelief.

‘Get that down,’ Wolsey would hiss, whenever the ink began to dry.

From the benches under the window, Blackbird watched as his master mesmerised his audience. He did not smile, but he allowed himself to lean back, with arms crossed, and enjoy the stories he heard.

With an old commander’s vigour, Dacre continued. ‘I was in the middle march, some years ago, when I realised just what these lands were like. Till then I had thought these people were ordinary thugs, criminals like any others. Not that day.’ He rubbed his knee, and his expression tightened as the memories returned. ‘Late afternoon, it was, and my brother Christopher and I were on the hunt for a man who’d killed a household – master, mistress, children and servants -for a fish kettle full of coins. The scene he left behind can easily be imagined. What happened next is harder to credit.

‘We followed the man’s trail to his village, and found his hovel. Inside there was no one but three children, none of them older, I’d say, than ten. The youngest was crying, but the older two were crouched by the remains of a fire, which had gone out. The little girl, the middle one, ran towards me and threw her arms around my legs. I thought she was missing her father, and I put away my sword, and began to speak to her. Christopher sheathed his sword too, and the oldest child began telling us a story, about how his mother was ill and being looked after by a neighbour, and his father had gone to find help.

‘He babbled on, and the girl clung to my legs, and I began to think something wasn’t right. Before I realised what was up, the boy had run at me with a dagger, intending to stab me in the chest, and the girl had slipped from me to Christopher, a small knife in her hand, with the same idea.’ He shook his head, still disbelieving. ‘They weren’t hard to fight off, but the shock of it nearly let them slide their knives between our ribs.’

His voice hardened. ‘We found the father outside, in the bushes. He was made to pay, but the children were let loose. A few more years, and we knew they’d be coming for us again, that was for sure. But what could we do? Ye cannot gaol a girl of seven for doing what her father told her.’ He paused. ‘In parts of the north, they’re all like that. I’ve seen withered old women on their deathbeds try to slit the throats of my men, and gangs of lads too young to shave whose only education is in blood. Boys like that think nothing of murdering their own kin, if they’re well paid for it. And when it comes to the Scots, they see killing my men as sport, to brag of to their wenches. Better an Englishman’s head to kick around a field than a sheep’s bladder. No matter if he was just a ploughman doing his day’s work, or a magistrate of the king. Any head will do.’

The tribunal registered disapproval and shock as his tales continued. Nor was Dacre merely spinning yarns. As his account of the trouble caused him by English northerners unfolded, the nature of the borderlands became clear. English highlanders had no more compunction about slaughtering or stealing from their neighbours than the Scots, and thieves from both sides of the border would join together and sweep the countryside like packs of wolves, loyal to none, not even their own.

‘There are some Scots,’ he went on, draining his tankard, ‘who I would trust with my life; and men on Naworth’s payroll who would cut me dead for a ha’penny. That is why, my lords, I do business with the other side. Sometimes it is required that I bargain with my enemies, and sometimes that I do deals, for the good of our country.

‘Robson picked the wrong story to tweak my tail. If I really had let free the killer of Scottish wardens, why would any of us here be concerned? It does not damage our interests in any way. But if, as he has alleged, I am hand in glove with an outlaw band, it matters not if they are Scots or English, because it would be a serious crime either way.’

He spread his hands on his knees. ‘Look at me, will ye? I have spent thirty years, and a small fortune, keeping the border under control. Our king here in London town has dealings with monarchs and emperors of countries that would destroy us, given the chance; my affairs are no different. But the idea that King Henry would open the gates of the Tower of London and set free those who should swing for their crimes is no more laughable than that I would do the same. I may be getting long in the tooth, but I am no a fool, no a knave, whatever the Bishop of Carlisle, or the Percys, or the rest of them would have ye believe.’

He ran a hand over his face. ‘Bring out the rest of the accusations, and I will speak to them, best I can. But Robson’s nasty little story should be dismissed from your minds. Only one who was tired of this world would deal such a treacherous hand as he claims I did. And I can assure ye I am no yet tired of life, though maybe’ – he gave a wry smile – ‘maybe of hard work. That I do confess.’

Noon passed, and afternoon crept in. There was no break as there had been the previous day, but food was brought into the chamber, and the tribunal feasted on chicken legs. Dacre waved away a plate, but accepted a tumbler of wine. Wolsey did not eat either but instead waded on through the allegations Sir William Eure had presented.

Four hundred miles away in his keep, Crozier could not know how the Star Chamber’s business was proceeding, though he was anxious to learn its verdict. Until that time, mirthless though he could often be, he saw the humour in being the hand that shaped this most English and patriotic trial, a hand that everyone in the chamber would gladly have slapped in chains or, better still, severed from its wrist.

The days passed, autumn gathering outside the windows of the Star Chamber as Dacre defended himself, denial following denial. The Duke of Norfolk made an intervention, writing to the court to remind them of Dacre’s crusade the previous year against Tynedale’s verminous clans, a breed no one else had managed to scratch before, let alone exterminate. But Dacre did not fool himself that this would do him much good. Norfolk and Wolsey’s enmity was set in stone, like one of the ten commandments.