Dacre's War (34 page)

From the far bank of the stream, behind the low branches of a yew, Oliver Barton watched Louise and Antoine head back up the path. He sucked his teeth. Something was brewing between that pair that went far beyond cousinly love. But while it would be useful to see where their liaison led, it was the Frenchman who held his attention. Barton no longer doubted there was something suspicious about him. He wondered what he was up to. That it was nothing good, he already could tell. Those herbs and potions, his miraculous cures – Barton pulled up his hood, making the sign of the cross, and turned towards the fields. Was the man a simple healer, as everyone said? He shivered. It seemed to him there were more sinister forces at work.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

December 1524

The weather was turning, birds making for the safety of tree and hedge, sheep and goats gathering in hollows, facing into the wind. It was only midday but already the road before them was disappearing into gloom as a steel-grey sky lowered itself over the Normandy plains and a thin rain began to fall. Keeping their heads down as they rode into the squall, the borderers hoped the roofs and spires of Cherbourg would soon come into sight.

Saddlesore and filthy, they had been on the road for six days and nights since leaving Fontainebleau. Changing horses twice a day, merciful on their beasts but not themselves, Crozier and Benoit had ridden as if chased by an incoming tide, pausing only for a few hours’ rest, and something to eat.

Tied to Crozier’s belt were the letters they had come for, a fat pouch that could bring down Dacre, and others besides; but no one would have guessed that their journey had been a success. The borderer’s expression was hard as ice, his thoughts far from the country passing beneath their hooves. He had been a month away from home and before his eyes he saw not Normandy’s loamy fields and its wide, empty roads, but smoke and fire-licked stone as Crozier’s Keep burned. He smelled not the sweat of his horse, or his well-worn shirt, but the pitch torches of Dacre’s secret army; heard the screams of those trapped in the keep as they toppled from the walls. Not until he was back and saw his people safe would his face soften. The letters might secure the Croziers’ future, but he was uneasy, afraid that such a future would not arrive before the Warden General sent his men their way.

Benoit gave a shout, and Crozier raised his head to see the pale city walls loom into view across the valley below. Raising his hand in reply, he dug in his knees and sent the post horse flying, the road disappearing in a froth of sodden earth.

Unwanted days had been added to the borderers’ journey when they learned that Albany was not in residence with his king in Paris, as he had promised before he left Scotland, but at Francis’s hunting lodge, deep in the forest of Fontainebleau. Turning south-east, they followed the road through the forest, narrow, pot-holed, and slow. Crozier had arrived at the old lodge in a barely contained rage. Not only had Albany ignored his letters, but it was beginning to look as if he had wilfully misled him.

After tying their horses in the trees, the borderers had been left to wait in the hallway, where a log fire crackled, and the sunken eyes of the deer and bears that adorned the walls shifted under the shadows, as if they were watching. The duke, they were informed, was out on the chase, and would not be back for hours. If they preferred to find accommodation in the village nearby, they could return the next day?

Benoit told the footman they would wait. His French was rough but clear, as was his impatience. The lackey clicked his heels and returned to the servants’ quarters, where he described the Scots who were muddying his floors, his audience of cooks and maids clapping their hands in mirth.

The king’s arrival brought no duke. Shortly before dusk the borderers heard the huntsmen return, at the back of the house, but no one appeared in the hall. When it became clear their presence was being ignored, they made their way to the courtyard, where stableboys were leading away the hunters, whose flanks and bits were foaming. The king’s party was already gone, leaving behind a cart piled with gralloched deer whose stomachs gaped like open mouths.

When Benoit asked where Albany could be found, a stable hand pointed across the yard to a back door. The borderers went in, and up a set of stairs to a low, torchlit corridor lined with doors.

They got no further. An armed guard was on duty, and his face lit up at the sight of strangers. Hunting animals was no fun. It was people he enjoyed catching. Eyeing the sword pointed at his breast, Benoit once more explained their business, fearing he too was about to be disembowelled.

They were led downstairs to wait, this time in a poky room off the entrance, but it was another hour before Albany appeared, sweet-scented in an emerald green jerkin and jewelled cap, a silver pomander around his neck. He gave a shallow bow. ‘You have had a long journey,’ he said. ‘I hope you have not had an equally tiresome wait.’

Crozier was curt. ‘Did you get my messages? I sent three, these past few weeks.’

‘I did. They were sent on from Paris, but I have been busy.’ Albany fingered the pomander, as if the Scots brought with them a smell he did not like.

‘In that case,’ Crozier continued, ‘you will understand our urgency. We need those letters you spoke of. They are our only hope now of bringing Baron Dacre to justice before he hunts down his enemies.’

Albany turned his attention to the hearth, fluffing the lace at his wrist. ‘It all seems so far away now, all so unimportant,’ he murmured.

Crozier took a step towards him. ‘You will not think that when you return to your country and find Dacre’s hand directing Holyrood’s business from behind the scenes, and turning the court against you.’

The duke turned slowly. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘You have not heard, then.’ He smiled, without warmth. ‘Dacre cannot harm me now. I am no longer regent. In my absence, your parliament has deposed me. I received notice of this only a few days ago. Quaintly worded it was. Very – shall we say Scotch? – in its coarse brutality.’

‘I did not know,’ said Crozier impatiently, ‘but it makes no difference. You promised me those letters, and I am here to get them.’

The duke moved away from the fire, and took a seat on a deep oaken chest, which had once held a queen’s trousseau. ‘It is not as simple as that,’ he said. ‘I find myself in a position where those letters might one day be useful to me. You and I are no longer associates. We may have served each other’s purpose in the past, but that is now at an end. I will never see Scotland again and,’ he examined his fingernails, ‘I cannot say I am sorry.’

He got no further. Crozier had him by the collar, dragging him onto his feet and slamming him against the wall, where he held him in a choking grip, a knife pointed at his throat.

‘Give me the letters.’ He spoke through his teeth. ‘If you do not do as you promised, or if you call the guards and have us murdered, it is not you our clan will destroy but your children, your mistresses, and your new young wife, whoever she will be. You will live to be an old man, knowing you allowed them to be butchered because you were too dishonourable to keep your side of a deal.’

Sweat trickled down Albany’s temple, but his voice did not shake. ‘Let me go, and we can talk like civilised men. You’re nothing but a dirty thug, Crozier. I always knew that.’

‘As if I cared.’ Crozier’s hold tightened. ‘Remember, if you shout for help, you will be dead before it arrives, and the rest of your family will follow, one by one, in the months ahead.’

Albany nodded, unable to speak, and the borderer let him go. The duke dropped onto the chest and ran his hand under his collar, his throat working hard to swallow. He cast a malevolent look at the Scots, as if wondering how he could outwit them, but when he had caught his breath he stood up.

‘You can have them. Maundering stuff; they turned my stomach. I’ll be glad to be rid of them. I will fetch them now, and bless the day you disappear out of my sight, and all thought of Scotland with you.’ Turning to the grate he spat on the logs, which sizzled as if with loathing. ‘Do not follow,’ he barked, as the Borderers started after him. ‘Despite what you think, I am a man of my word. You are safe. For now.’

Neither spoke while they waited for Albany to return. The bustle of the kitchens preparing dinner reached them, as did the aroma of roasting meats. Benoit’s stomach growled, the only sound in the room. When finally the door opened, Crozier’s knife was in one hand, the hilt of his sword under the other.

‘Here they are,’ said Albany, tossing the package to him. ‘Now, be gone.’ He might have been dismissing a beggar.

Unhurried, Crozier put away his knife and opened the package. He spread the letters on the chest, read quickly, and was satisfied. Tucking them into his belt, he turned to the duke.

His eye ran over the puffed sleeves and earringed lobe, the opal nestling in his cap. No words were needed to convey his contempt. Already a bruise was darkening on the duke’s neck. It would serve as reminder of the borderer for many days to come. So too would the knowledge that a couple of brigands had bested him, as had their country. Sneer though he would for the rest of his life about the viper’s nest that was Scotland, Albany would never have the courage to return, and everyone in that room knew it.

L’Auberge de Villenuit was blanketed in rain. A long, low wooden house, wreathed in yellowing vines, it sent smoke from a jumble of chimneys into the misted air, but still the place was cold. Crozier and Benoit took a room, had their horses stabled, and, rubbing their hands, made for the taproom, where food and drink were served. The place was quiet, few travellers out at this time of year, fewer still in the gathering storm.

Crozier had sent a message to Foulberry’s skipper, who was awaiting them at the port. ‘He’ll be kicking his heels, wondering where we’ve been,’ he grumbled, as they tucked into a plate of mutton stew, swimming in succulent fat. ‘We’re already a week late.’

Benoit spoke through his food. ‘Doubt he’ll care much. WI’ the wind rising like this, he’ll be relieved to be in harbour and no blown onto the Cornish rocks.’

Crozier growled. ‘This storm’ll pass by tomorrow. We have to get back.’

‘Aye, I ken,’ Benoit replied, draining his tankard, and beckoning for more, ‘but it looks as if it’s settling in. Be patient, man. There’s nothing you can do about it if we have to wait another day or two.’

Wind buffeted the inn, setting doors banging and shutters rattling. It howled down the taproom chimney like bloodhounds on the scent. Crozier lapsed into a brooding silence as the pair watched the haywire flames, waiting for word from Henryson. When it arrived, long after dark, it was as Benoit had feared. There would be no sailing tomorrow, or the day after that. The skipper would send word as soon as the storm had abated, but it might be several more days.

With the aid of ale and a pair of dice, the borderers had begun the tedious task of passing the time when heels were heard in the hallway, and an imperious French voice called for help. There was a babble of obsequious conversation as orders were given and servants despatched, before a well-dressed young woman entered the taproom, pushing back her hood, and cast a swift glance round before disappearing again.

The men played on, but were soon disturbed by the innkeeper, who approached them with a servile stoop. He had, he said, offered them the best room in the inn, not knowing the company he was about to receive. He now begged their indulgence, and asked if they would be prepared to take another, smaller room at the front of the house, so that a lady and her maid could sleep in comfort and peace. Their things would be moved to a nice warm chamber, overlooking the road.

From the hallway came the scuff of servants carrying bags up the stairs, and the click of impatient boots on flagstones as the newly arrived guests awaited the innkeeper’s return. Benoit told the man to do as he pleased. Straightening to his normal height, the landlord was all smiles. ‘It is her ladyship,’ he explained. ‘She always demands the best room.’

Moments later, the young woman returned, peeling off her gloves. Behind her came her mistress, a fur-tipped hood hiding her face. The maid helped her out of her cloak, and the woman stood looking round the dimly lit room until she found the borderers, whose backs were turned to the door.

‘Well, well, well,’ she said softly, walking towards them in her nailed boots. Startled, Benoit turned, and saw Isabella Foulberry. Her face was in shadow, but as she laid a hand on Crozier’s shoulder, and he looked up, his expression was plain to read.

‘I did not expect to find you in these parts,’ said Isabella. ‘I had thought you’d be long since home.’

‘What are you doing here?’ Crozier asked.

‘Visiting my family – their seat is only a day’s journey from the city. Henryson brought me, when he returned from your own passage. I had hoped to embark on the
River Pearl
tonight, but find I have to spend the night here – perhaps longer. Such a bore. But less so now I find such good company, here and, of course, for the passage home.’ She smiled, and pulled up a stool to sit beside them.

Crozier looked at Benoit, and drained his tankard. He rolled the dice on their table. ‘You will be disappointed, I think, my lady. This is all we can do to pass the time,’ he said.

‘Really, do you think so?’ she replied, her hand again settling on his shoulder.

Crozier removed the hand, and looked at her levelly. ‘If I have ever led you to expect or hope otherwise, my lady, I ask your forgiveness. It was uncivil of me to use you in that way. But now all pretence can be at an end.’ He turned back to the dice and glanced at Benoit. ‘Your cast, brother.’