Dacre's War (32 page)

By the second week the baron was wondering how much longer he could sustain this ordeal. Then an image of the Fleet would rise before him, and his determination deepen. It was scarcely less gruelling for Blackbird, though his fate was not held in Wolsey’s hands. Only the snatched hours he caught with their landlady brought any colour into his days. And though she had hoped for an alliance with the baron, she found his servant satisfactory in ways she could not have anticipated.

It was the middle of October when Wolsey informed the court that their work was almost done. He peered at the baron over a sheaf of paper, biting his bottom lip, which had become chapped and raw during the course of this trial. Quiet fell over the Star Chamber, and those within froze, awaiting the cardinal’s verdict.

‘We have had quite a few weeks of it, have we not?’ he said gently. ‘Much evidence to sift, and an equally heavy weight of defence. One understands why the goddess Minerva looks so tired, balancing the scales of justice. It is not a light burden to take into one’s hands, as this tribunal is all too aware.’

He left his place, squeezed past his associates, and stepped off the dais, approaching Dacre, where he sat. A skitter of leaves dashed at a window, louder than Wolsey’s footsteps.

‘We are finished here, I think,’ he said, a note of regret in his voice. ‘Your defence has been robust, my lord, but I speak for us all when I say I find it not entirely convincing. I wish I did, yet is it likely that all your accusers are motivated by malice or jealousy or ignorance of the facts? I think not.’ Behind the cardinal, the tribunal nodded sad heads.

‘Your eminence reaches that conclusion without knowing the north,’ replied Dacre tonelessly. ‘What might seem fantastical or improbable or downright impossible down here is commonplace in the borders. I intend no insult to this court when I say ye know not of what ye speak.’

Wolsey turned to look out of the window, eyes raised to a gunmetal sky. His lips moved, as if in prayer, and he raised the cross on his breast and kissed it before facing the room again.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Tell me how that can be rectified. You are an old and valued servant of the king, even if it seems you have been misguided in recent times. I am loath to charge you with guilt unless I can be assured I have been fair. What, Dacre, would you have this court do?’

Dacre sighed. ‘Set up a commission,’ he replied. ‘Send the king’s investigators to the English marches, where they can speak to anyone they please, not only those who hold a grudge against me. Look into all my affairs, and those around me, and then make up your mind.’

Wolsey’s face softened, and he seemed on the brink of tears. ‘That I will, then, my lord, and I thank you for your counsel. But we shall meet here again in a few months, when their report is delivered. In happier circumstances, I pray.’

Dacre bowed his head, filled with a dizzying desire for sleep, and by the time he had raised it the tribunal had filed out of the chamber, and only he and Blackbird remained.

In his office, Wolsey opened his trunk, and took out a bottle of fine Spanish wine. He drank it from the neck, and as it slipped down his gullet and spread into his veins his eyes closed, and a smile lifted his cheeks. A blessed commission! Why had he not thought of it himself ? Dacre’s guilt – which he did not doubt – could now be confirmed, but at his instigation. He would tell Henry that he mistrusted the accusations lodged by Eure, and wished to conduct his own more rigorous inquiry. Which, he would make sure, would find the baron guilty. It would also demonstrate Wolsey’s scrupulous sense of justice, during which his own reservations about the baron would nevertheless be in plain view, for the king to observe.

He finished the bottle and, taking out a large red handkerchief, wiped his chin. No longer did he need fear the king’s wrath, which would be directed solely at the Warden General. Nor need he be alarmed at the prospect of the baron’s imminent indictment. He could simply enjoy it, when the time came, as God intended.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Louise was seated on the mounting step in the courtyard, brushing the wolf’s coat while he sat, tail sweeping from side to side like a birch broom. Beneath her filigree cap her hair matched the copper beeches that surrounded the keep, and watching her from the stable door, Crozier remembered the first time he had untied her ribbon and seen her hair fall to her shoulders.

His wife did not know he was there. She was smiling, listening to Antoine who was by her side on the step, grinding seeds beneath his pestle, which he seemed to carry on him at all times, as a hunter does his bow.

Leaning against the doorpost, Crozier observed them. Louise enjoyed the Frenchman’s conversation. She might even, he feared, seek him out. In his company she smiled and chattered. With her husband she was reserved, not always meeting his eye, keeping her thoughts to herself where once she had told him everything, or so he had believed. Now, with a pang, he realised he could not recall when last she had thrown her head back with laughter at something he said. Yet there was a time when she had laughed all day long.

He kicked at the straw beneath his boot, troubled by a feeling he could not name. It was one thing having to deal with Isabella Foulberry, and keep the image of her and how he had behaved out of his head when he was with his wife; quite another to watch Louise sitting so close to Antoine. Were it any other man, Crozier would have punched him in the face for his presumption. It might not have improved matters, but it would have made him feel better. But Antoine had saved his grandfather’s life, and was still their guest. So Crozier’s fists itched, and he grew curter than ever, even with his wife, who had done nothing wrong except doubt his love for her.

Had he not cured Old Crozier, the soldier should have left the keep weeks before. He no longer walked with a stick, though his leg had set crooked, and when he was tired his limp was pronounced. Even so, Crozier knew he was fit for the army once more, and back he should go. Louise had once begged him not to pack Antoine off to the French garrison at Dunbar, but now he was resolved. The time was coming when he must order him to leave.

Benoit crossed the courtyard, and raised a hand. ‘It’s no like you tae be doing nothing,’ he said. His eye followed Crozier’s, and his smile disappeared. He nodded. ‘Ah, Our foreign friend. He’s gey friendly, is he no?’

‘We owe him Old Crozier’s life.’

‘And he owes Louise, and you, for his,’ said Benoit. ‘I’d call that quits. In fact,’ he put a hand on Crozier’s arm, ‘he remains mair in your debt. His lunacy nearly cost us all our lives. Ye could boot him out the morn and still feel pleased with yersel.’

Crozier said nothing, but scuffed the cobbles. Frowning, Benoit pulled him back into the stable. ‘What’s wrong?’ he demanded. Unversed as he was in affairs of the heart, his own marriage being easy-going and uncomplicated, Benoit was neither blind nor unfeeling. He had seen his sister’s wan looks these past few months, and felt the chill of Crozier’s wintry mood himself. For a wife, that temper could not have been comfortable.

Like Tom, he was not entirely easy about the borderer’s relationship with Isabella Foulberry, though unlike Tom he would never have spoken of that to Crozier, or to Louise. It was his view that a man could break his marriage vows and still be a good husband. He had seen it often enough. Lust was fleeting, perhaps even healthy, and it did not destroy a lifelong bond. True, he would not have thought it Crozier’s style, and he could not imagine being unfaithful to Ella – the idea made him queasy as well as nervous – but he had met Lady Foulberry, and recognised her kind. When such a woman wanted a man, he would have to be strong indeed to resist her. He knew Crozier had a will of iron, but he also knew he was playing a deep game. Quite how far he was prepared to go in its pursuit, Benoit could not tell.

When Adam still would not speak, Benoit sighed. ‘For Christ’s sake, Crozier, jist tell him to go. Ye cannae be worrying about your wife and another man like this. I’d wager Louise hasnae thought of him as anything but a friend, but the way you’ve been carrying on of late, perhaps ye shouldnae take the chance.’

He waited for Crozier to shout in anger, but the borderer did nothing but pick a straw off his cloak. ‘Has she said anything to Ella?’ he asked. ‘Has she spoken of me, or us?’

Benoit was shocked. ‘Dinnae be daft. She’s like a clam on that front. Always has been. It drives Ella demented.’ He grinned. ‘She’d spill the beans about anything to anyone, my girl.’

Crozier’s expression changed, as if he had not been listening. ‘You and I may have a long journey ahead, brother. Let Louise have company she enjoys until we are back. It is innocent enough, I am sure.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘France. Unless Albany replies to my messages in the next week, we must go to him.’

‘For evidence to incriminate Dacre?’

Crozier nodded. ‘He promised me those letters before he left. I know he has them because his servant sent word the day they sailed. But now he ignores my pleas. The man is not to be trusted, that I always knew. One day he may return to Scotland, but I doubt it; certainly no time soon. No one here wants him or needs him. Only me, it seems.’

He banged his fist against a stall, startling the horses, who shifted uneasily. Benoit was alarmed. He had rarely seen Crozier so overwrought. ‘And there’s more, I heard last night. It’s as though we are cursed.’ Benoit drew closer as Crozier dropped his voice. ‘Baron Dacre has been freed from the Star Chamber. They are bringing no charges.’

Benoit’s eyes widened in horror.

‘All those oaths we gathered – as good as useless.’ Crozier laid his forehead on the stall, as if weary beyond words. ‘I heard in a letter from Lord Foulberry, who sounds weak-kneed with fear. We might have guessed how it would be. The king’s men look after their own. They say there’s to be a palace commission to investigate Dacre properly, but what will come of that? Nothing, you can be sure. And already Dacre will be back in the marches, raring for revenge. A word about me from any of those we persuaded to inform on him, and we are in trouble.’

‘They wouldnae . . . surely . . . ?’ Benoit began, but Crozier’s laugh cut him short.

‘No? You think we can trust any of them, people of that sort? if they need a scapegoat they won’t hesitate. And knowing Dacre, they will be made to squeal all right. Squeal and then beg for mercy. Not that he will give them any.’

Benoit was silent. Outside, the wolf barked.

‘So you see,’ Crozier went on, looking towards the sunlit yard, ‘the cooling of my wife’s love is not the worst of my problems. I will learn to live with that if I have to, so long as she survives what lies ahead. She, and all the rest of us.’

‘And the letters are our only hope?’

‘I believe so,’ he replied. ‘And even then, a slim one.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Dacre’s journey home from London was slow and winding. He had insisted they saddle up and leave the day Wolsey dismissed the case, though it was noon before they left the Star Chamber. ‘But should we not stay the night, my lord, and make an early start tomorrow?’ said Blackbird, concerned at the baron’s pallor, his lips a shade of milk.

‘I have to get out of this place,’ Dacre replied. ‘I cannot bear the noise, or the stench. I will sleep better knowing I am already on the road home.’

Blackbird bowed, packed their few things, and within the hour they were riding out of Bishop’s Gate, along the old Roman road. Neither looked back, but the sound of London followed them into the dusk, and they knew it had not finished with them.

As they headed north Dacre seemed like a man in a dream, swaying in his saddle, mumbling to himself, and sipping wine from his old tin flask, which he refilled at every stop. Blackbird said nothing, but found them the best inns, so that even should the baron lie awake, as most nights he did, he would do so in comfort.

‘I must see my older daughters,’ Dacre announced the morning they left Nottingham, his face as slack and sickly as tripe. ‘I miss them. In that terrible chamber, under all those gold-painted stars, I found myself thinking, your heart could burst, Tam, and ye could go to the next world any day now and not remember what the pair of them look like, it’s so long since ye set eyes on them.’

He put a hand to his breast. ‘This blasted wardenship, Blackbird, this poxy war. They are hellbent on destroying my life. That is what they would like. But I will not let them. I will not.’ He clenched his teeth, and on they rode, heading towards the Yorkshire dales, to visit the lady Anne and her ruddy-faced baron, and thereafter turn west towards the Pennines where Mabel, his eldest daughter, lived with her wealthy husband and young children. From there, he told Blackbird, they would continue to Naworth. A visit to his own lands was long overdue.

October was almost gone when at last they reached Cumberland. Rain and sleet had driven into their faces the last few miles on the crest of the wind-bitten moors, but the baron’s horse picked up speed under his heels as they came off the hills and drew near the castle. Beneath his mud-spattered helmet, Dacre’s face held the hint of a smile as Naworth came into sight, its glowering walls and well-tended fields promising a haven.

Servants and hounds ran out at the sound of their approach, but Blackbird looked beyond them, and gave a gratified nod. His message to Harbottle had reached her. At the door of the castle’s high-vaulted entrance, Joan was there to welcome them, pressing herself into the baron’s soaked cloak with no thought of her velvet gown.

Dacre’s eyes watered, perhaps with fatigue, as he pushed her gently away. ‘Steady, girl,’ he said. ‘Ye’ll knock me off my feet.’ Laughing, Joan took her father’s hand and led him to the fire, where hot wine and a bearskin rug were laid out for his comfort.

The Warden General did not talk much over dinner that night, but Blackbird watched his pasty colour melt away, as if he were thawing. Over the next few days, the baron of old began to return, his voice louder, his laugh rich, and his sleep more like that of the just. Nights were no longer to be dreaded, Dacre so exhausted that not even ghouls could disturb his rest, though a lighted candle was still put by his head when he retired, to keep the dark at bay.

For the baron’s recovered spirits Blackbird thanked the old gods of Naworth. The place was part of him, as if he, like the castle and its lands, had sprung from the earth beneath, and to be uprooted and replanted anywhere else was to weaken and wither.

The respite could not last. Early in November, a messenger arrived from the Duke of Norfolk. Dacre’s presence was required at Berwick to negotiate the detail of a peace settlement between the English and Scottish courts. ‘They think i’m an assassin and a thief, but still they can’t do without me.’ Dacre shook his head in disgust, but instructed Blackbird to pack his saddlebags.

Rising from the fireside, Joan turned to leave the hall and tell her maid to gather her things, but Dacre called her back. ‘What are ye thinking, miss? Ye’re staying here for the time. Winter in Harbottle is cruel, and if the snow sets in it could be weeks before we can come back to Naworth.’

The young woman looked at him, thoughtfully, and shook her head. ‘No, Father. I am coming with you.’ Her odd expression caught Dacre’s attention.

‘What now?’ he huffed. ‘Worried about me, are ye? There’s no need. I’m good for a few more years, never ye worry.’

‘I want to,’ said Joan, touching his arm. ‘Please. I find I like it there.’

When Dacre could not dissuade her, he sighed. ‘Is this because I said Mabel wants you to stay with her? Ye can’t put that off forever. I’ve told her she will soon have to find you a husband.’

Joan hung her head. ‘I know. And I will do that, and go to court, whenever you say I must. But for now . . .’ she raised her head, her green eyes pleading, ‘for now, I am coming with you. When you are gone, Naworth is as cold and empty as Harbottle, and the weather worse, I swear. Who knows,’ she added, with a smiling grimace, ‘if I am to be married off, this might be our last winter together.’

Dacre frowned at the prospect of losing her, and allowed himself to agree. Watching from the doorway, Blackbird silently saluted the girl. Her devotion to Dacre was touching. ‘Ach, you’re getting old and soft,’ the butler muttered, sniffing as he hurried up the stairs. But the memory of Joan’s tender insistence stayed with him, sparking a glimmer of regret that he had no daughter to take care of him.