Ranged against this uninspiring trio were the Wardens of the English March: Scrope, Forster and Hunsdon. Richie knew their qualities all too well. He feared them all, hated Forster, and couldn’t think of three better men to have on his side in a fight.
All of which besides, Richie cared not a jot for the earls or Mary Stewart. A practical ma, he shared his late uncle’s belief that God helped those who helped themselves.
He placed his tankard on a cask. “Thank you for the ale, Sir Cuthbert,” he said, “and the gear and horses. We’ll be jogging along now.”
Collingwood’s head tilted back. He glared balefully at Richie down the length of his snout. “I’m not used to being denied, Reade. What ails you, man? Do you have no courage? No pride? No love of God?”
“God spared not my kin,” Richie replied evenly. “I owe Him no favours.”
The old knight’s mouth twisted into a sneer. “So you’re just a horse-thief after all. Very well. Go. Take your spoil and be off. I expect to see you dangling from a gibbet one day.”
Likewise, Sir Knight, thought Richie. He made a leg and withdrew quickly.
He hurried out to the courtyard. His followers were waiting patiently for him, holding the reins of their new hobblers. Cleave-Crown’s body had been slung over the saddle of a spare beast.
“We’re leaving,” said Richie, hoisting himself into the saddle, “and quickly, before good Sir Cuthbert decides to withdraw his generosity.”
They rode out in single file, at a trot, watched by the household servants and the rabble of militia. Richie felt the disapproving gazes burn into his back. These were all lawful citizens, and he was an outlaw. They needed little excuse to lay hands on him and his followers and bear them off to the nearest gallows.
So much for gratitude, he thought bitterly. I should have stayed in the Black Moss and let the Scots kill you all.
As he went, he doffed his bonnet at one of the women of Eslington. She scowled in response, and the man next to her made an obscene gesture.
“Get out of here, Richie Crow-Bait,” he shouted through cupped hands. Others took up the cry, until their jeering voices echoed through the valley.
Richie straightened his back and urged his pony into a canter. His face burned with shame and anger, but he knew it would be fatal to respond.
Ruth drew up next to him. “Never mind those fools,” she said, “you did the right thing.”
“And led our cousin to his death,” he replied. Something about the gentleness in her voice caused his eyes to well up. He blinked away the tears.
No tears. There is no time for them. Later. Much later.
“At least I know where to bury him,” he added, “in holy ground among decent Christian folk.”
She gave him a puzzled look. “Where? We may have trouble finding a priest. Unless you ask old Gilpin.”
Ruth meant Bernard Gilpin, known as the ‘reiver’s priest’ and, more grandly, the Apostle of the North. An Oxford clergyman, Gilpin had spent decades tramping up and down the Border, trying to persuade some of the worst criminals on earth to see the error of their ways. So far he had failed dismally, but his superhuman efforts earned him a deal of respect. Endlessly patient, brave and forgiving, he had been known to shrive men at the foot of the gallows, just before they were hanged.
Gilpin was a common sight in Redesdale and elsewhere. A lonely figure striding up and down the fells, staff in one hand, Good Book tucked underarm. Richie had spoken with the famous holy man a couple of times, and once earned himself a blow from the staff for asking if Gilpin wiped his backside with pages torn from the Bible.
“Not Gilpin,” said Richie, “or any other priest. We’ll see him off ourselves.”
Ruth fell back and left him alone for the rest of the journey. Lost in memory, Richie barely noticed the route, or the pale winter sunshine slanting over the hills. His thoughts were full of the dead man he had known all his life. As a boy he had secretly looked up to Cleave-Crown, even worshipped him a little. Thrilled to the tales of the older youth’s violent adventures in Berwick and Carlisle, the long trail of sighing housewives, outraged husbands and bruised watchmen he left in his wake.
Now his cousin was just a lump of slowly cooling meat, slung over the back of a horse. Richie felt at a loss without him. As the oldest of the outlaws, with much experience of living on the run, Cleave-Crown had been his rock. Admittedly, they hadn’t always agreed, and in time perhaps the older man would have challenged him for the leadership. Richie’s guilt and grief was tinged with a sliver of relief, which only made him feel worse.
He led his remaining followers to St Cuthberts, the ruined church near the edge of the Black Moss. Much of the stone from the church had been plundered by the old reivers of Blacklaws, to build their little fortress in the heart of the marshes. Little remained save the foundation stones, laid out in a rectangle, surrounded by a perimeter wall. This was made of drystone and barely came up to Richie’s waist.
Inside the perimeter, east of the church, were some rows of ancient graves. They were worn smooth by time and weather, their inscriptions long faded to unintelligible markings.
Apart from food and horses, the outlaws had also taken a couple of shovels from Collingwood's manor. Richie and Davy spat on their hands and got to work digging a grave-pit for their cousin. Adam stood at the gateway and kept watch.
Ruth took herself off to a little grove of trees beside the cemetery. In the middle of the grove was a stone idol, ancient beyond measure. It was small, barely knee-high, and the slow decay of time had almost obliterated the image of a human figure carved onto the surface. If one looked closely, the faint outline of a wreath of ivy leaves could be seen crowning the figure's head.
When Richie and his friends were children, the priest of Crowhame had discouraged them from visiting the grove. It was an evil place, he said, a haunt of evil spirits. Long ago, before the truth of Christ reached Britain's shores, ignorant people had worshipped here, offering blood sacrifices to pagan gods. Christ's servants had driven out most of these false deities, but their vile influence still lingered here and there. This grove was one such gateway to Hell. For some reason the monks of old had left the idol in place when they built their church here. The priest reckoned they were secretly in awe of it, and cursed them for hypocrites and idolaters.
The children had defied his warnings, as children are bound to do. Richie had always found the grove a peaceful place, especially in springtime, with a cool breeze rustling the leaves overhead. He and Ruth had shared their first kiss here. And more besides. Ruth sometimes came here alone to venerate the idol. He cared little, and said nothing when she wandered away to pay her respects.
Digging the grave took up over half the day. When they had dug down to six feet or so, Richie called a halt.
“Deep enough to hold him,” he panted, leaning on his shovel, “and prevent the bugger climbing out again to haunt us. Wouldn't want that, eh?”
He winked at Davy, who managed a smile. The hours of toil had chipped away at Richie's grief, if not his desire for revenge. Cleave-Crown was a born warrior. Such men were invariably fated to die young. If they could speak to his cousin's shade, Richie reckoned the dead man would express few regrets.
They clambered out of the pit and called for Ruth and Adam. Together, all four picked up Cleave-Crown's body and gently lowered it into his grave. Once he was laid out on the dirt floor, Richie knelt beside the body and gently closed the eyelids.
“Hand me his gear,” he ordered. Davy passed down the dead man's axe, his ballock dagger, his bow, arrows, spare bowstrings and steel helm. He was already wearing his jack, which had failed to protect him from the sword-thrust.
Richie placed the axe on Cleave-Crown's chest and folded his dead hands over it. The other weapons he placed in the narrow spaces either side of the body.
He stood up and wiped the soil from his hands. “There,” he said, “now he can defend himself in the afterlife. God knows there will be enoug
h enemies waiting for him.”
“Should we say something?” asked Ruth after a long pause. Richie racked his brains for something suitable.
“He was a good friend, a loyal kinsman, and a good man in a fight,” he said. It was the best he could think of.
“A lover of women,” Ruth added with a sly smile.
“He owed me fourpence,” said Davy.
They looked to Adam, who shrugged and said nothing.
“God rest him, then,” sighed Richie. “Now let's fill in this damned hole before it starts raining.”
He and Davy picked up their shovels and got to work.
12.
Leonard Dacre knelt before the Queen and pressed his lips to her hand. A pale white hand, almost skeletal, delicate as a bunch of dry twigs. Dacre could have crushed it with ease. He dearly wanted to.
“Lord Dacre,” said Elizabeth, “we understand you wish to return to the North.”
Her voice was high, thin and shrewish. Dacre loathed the very sound of it. Since coming to London, he had been obliged to spend a good portion of every day in the Queen's presence. “We like to keep our friends close,” was one of her favourite sayings, accompanied by a knowing smile. And our enemies even closer, was the unspoken implication.
Around them a rabble of courtiers waited in silence. The audience chamber of Richmond Palace, a long white vaulted room, was packed with richly dressed bodies. Elizabeth's chief advisor Lord Burghley was present, along with her spymaster Francis Walsingham. Dacre thought of these two as the Toad and the Spider: Burghley short and stocky, afflicted by gout, Walsingham tall and thin, gliding about the palace in a rustle of black velvets. They were the Queen's pillars, her chief supports. Little escaped their notice.
Dacre knew the canny spymaster was watching him, and that Walsingham knew he knew it. Their silent battle of wits scraped at his morale. He frequently suffered nightmares of being imprisoned in the deepest dungeon of the Tower, where his body was broken on the rack by Walsingham's efficient army of torturers. One false step, one word out of place, and the nightmares would be made flesh.
He cleared his throat. “If it please Your Majesty,” he said in his most grovelling tone, “I desire only to pit my body in service against the rebel earls.”
Elizabeth grunted, a most unladylike noise. She was often a most unladylike woman. Aged thirty-six, her startling red hair was still her own, and her skin as yet had a natural creamy bloom, without the aid of the lead-based white cosmetic so popular with ladies of the court.
Her tame courtiers and poets described the Queen as the most beautiful woman in the land. In truth she was tall and thin and bony, with a long nose, a pointed chin, a mean little mouth and hard little blue eyes under heavy lids. Dacre trembled under the lash of those eyes, the diamond-hard stare which had flayed the truth out of far stronger men.
“It pleases Her Majesty to know that men still desire to serve us,” she said pettishly, “and, unlike some we might mention, are ready to take up arms against false traitors. Hm?”
She glared at Burghley, who puffed out his heavy cheeks. “Majesty,” he replied, “we have discussed this before. Hartlepool will be recaptured soon enough. My lord Sussex has already sent ships to blockade the port.”
“Blockade!” she screeched, causing several of the more nervous courtiers to jump. “Is that what you term it? And what are the results of this blockade? One small fishing boat captured, and a handful of silly fishermen! Meanwhile the rebels continue to hold the town in defiance of our power. Thumbing their noses at us, gentlemen – baring their arses!”
Dacre looked down, gnawing his bottom lip in an effort not to smile. The Queen’s volcanic rage at the loss of Hartlepool to the rebels had been most amusing to witness. She was still simmering over it, and the refusal of her lieutenant in York to make efforts to recapture the place. Sussex responded to her furious letters by saying that Hartlepool could easily be recaptured at a later date. Of far more importance was the rebel land army gathering in the north.
In the meantime Sussex had sent a squadron of warships under Henry Percy to ensure nothing got in or out of the port. So far Percy’s efforts had resulted in three ships lost, driven onto rocks off Flamborough Head by contrary winds, and the capture of a fishing boat. Elizabeth’s spectacular foul-mouthed rants over the incompetence of her captains shocked even the likes of Burghley, who had grown used to her tantrums.
The Queen turned her attention back to Dacre. “If we permitted you to return home,” she said, “what would you do there?”
“Gather my tenants at Naworth, Your Majesty,” he answered promptly. “Stock and refortify my castles and lead an army against the rebels in your name.”
Elizabeth smirked. “Aye, and use the opportunity to seize those estates you regard as rightfully yours, eh? Don’t try and hide your purposes from me, Lord Dacre. We know your history. You are a shameless papist. In the past you sheltered a great many Catholic priests from my officers.”
Dacre’s skin crawled with terror. He could almost sense Walsingham’s malignant shadow, looming over him like a giant bat.
He screwed up his courage. “If in the past I have offended, Majesty, then I can only admit my faults and apologise. My faith is my own, but I am always your loyal subject.”
This was the sort of blunt, straightforward speech Elizabeth seemed to appreciate, though rarely got from her army of fawners and flatterers.
At first it was difficult to tell the effect of his bold words. The Queen frowned, studying the blood-red ruby adorning the middle finger of her left hand. Around her the court waited in breathless silence for the verdict.
She curled the hand into a fist. “Well said, my lord. We must learn not to peer too closely into men’s souls. Go. Amuse yourself as you see fit. We shall ponder your request and let you know our answer. Do not leave the palace.”
Hating himself, Dacre kissed her hand again and bowed his way out. A pair of tall halberdiers in royal livery closed the double doors after him.
Dacre spent the next few days wandering restlessly about the halls and corridors and gardens of Richmond. The palace in all its splendour held few charms for him. He longed to be back in his own north country, throwing himself into the rebel cause. Without his guiding intelligence, Dacre feared the earls would soon run into disaster.
The pieces of news that reached him were encouraging. From Durham the rebel army had marched deep into Yorkshire and taken a string of minor towns. Yorkshire was thick with Catholics. Men flocked to join their banners, displaying the Five Wounds of Christ and the motto ‘God Speed the Plow’. By the time the earls reached Boroughbridge, it was said their host had swollen to over six thousand armed men.
In the privacy of his quarters Dacre prayed for their continued success. He was careful to pray quietly: there was no guard on his door, but Walsingham’s agents were doubtless watching him. Sometimes he half-expected to find one under the bed or peering up from the chamber pot.
“York,” he whispered to himself in the deepest watches of the night. “York is the key to our victory. O Lord of Hosts, grant my friends wisdom and courage!”
Granted, marching on York posed a terrible risk. The city was the strongest in the North, and well-defended. Sussex had his headquarters there. Dacre cursed the Queen’s decision to send Lord Hunsdon and Sir Ralph Sadler to assist the lieutenant. These were forged of very different metal to Sussex: hard, capable men, with much experience of war. With Hunsdon and Sadler to kick him up the backside, Sussex might scrape together enough men to resist any attack on York. Dacre could only pray the earls had the sense to move quickly, while the momentum was in their favour. Attacking York was a risk, but it was their only real hope of victory.
A week after his first audience with the Queen, Dacre was summoned again to the royal presence. He padded after the valet who brought the summons through a labyrinth of corridors lined with servants and guards, all decked out in Tudor livery. The heraldic emblem of the Tudor rose was
everywhere, painted on the tiles and wall panels, carved onto furnishings, a constantly visible reminder of where the power lay in England. Dacre was thoroughly sick of the sight of roses, and longed to see the palace scrubbed clean of them.
The Queen was in a private chamber, playing at cards with two male courtiers. Toadies, Dacre rated them. Lickspittles to a false heretical monarch. He bowed and made a leg in response to their offhand nods, but couldn’t even recall their names. Beside her chair stood a handsome, dark-haired lad of maybe ten summers. Dacre vaguely recognised him as Robert, Lord Hunsdon’s youngest son. The lad had been left at court when his father went to York. He served as page to the Queen, who was fond of having pretty boys about her.
Elizabeth half-turned and offered her hand for Dacre to kiss. “Ah! Good Leonard,” she exclaimed, “you are prompt to our summons. We trust you are enjoying our hospitality?”
She seemed in unusually good humour. Dacre warily approached her chair, knelt, and pressed his lips to the hateful white hand.
“Perfectly, Your Majesty,” he replied through gritted teeth, “though I am keen to return to my estates in the north, saving Your Majesty’s pleasure.”
The Queen grinned, displaying yellowed teeth. “As to the north, we have received good tidings. Excellent tidings! Tell him, sweet Robin.”
She reached out and tousled her page’s soft black hair. “The rebels have turned away from York,” the boy piped. “Instead they lay siege to Barnard Castle.”
Dacre almost buckled as a sharp pain stabbed through his chest. Barnard Castle, a fortress on the River Tees, some fifty miles north-west of York. It was irrelevant, of no importance whatsoever. Dacre’s worst fears had come to pass: at the most vital moment, the courage and resolution of the earls had failed.
He couldn’t afford to let his dismay show. Dacre mustered a ghastly smile and tried to ignore the rapid thudding of his heart.
Reiver Page 11
