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  “For what reason?” he asked, striving to keep his voice level. Elizabeth laughed, a crude shrill noise, and ruffled her sweet Robin’s hair again. He was careful to remain still under her fondling, his smile no more genuine than Dacre’s.

  “Because they are fools!” she cried. “Fools and cowards and lackwits, whose brains are in their codpieces. Our good captain Sir George Bowes has a garrison at Barnard, some seven or eight hundred men. Local gentry and their servants. It seems the earls, too frightened to attempt a siege of York, were persuaded to turn north from Boroughbridge to deal with the threat to their rear.”

  She clapped her hands together. “A host of six thousand and more, marching against a fraction of their number! The true reason is plain as day, my lords. Northumberland and Westmoreland have lost their nerve. All that remains is to chase them down. We have despatched twelve thousand men to York to reinforce Sussex, and Sir John Forster assures us the Marches are quiet. The rebels will get no help from Scotland, or from Spain either.”

  Dacre bowed his head. It was over. If the earls were foolish enough to meet such a host in battle, they would be slaughtered.

  All that remained was to try and salvage something from the wreck for himself. “Might I go north, Your Majesty” he ventured, “to see to my own affairs and assist with the final defeat of your enemies?”

  Elizabeth regarded him warmly. “Of course. That is why we summoned you. Your request is granted. Go north with our blessing, my lord. We wish you good hunting.”

  “Perhaps you shall visit us again,” she added, turning back to her cards, “though not too soon, we hope.”

  Dacre grimaced at this final sting and bowed himself out.

  13.

  Westmoreland sat at the entrance to his pavilion and watched the rebel artillery at work. Before him, on a small camp-table, was spread a frugal supper. Coarse rye bread, hard cheese, a little biscuit, a cupful of watered wine. He might have had better, but the earl insisted on sharing the same rations as the men. It raised their morale, or so he liked to think.

  The miserable handful of cannon fired all at once. There was a tremendous roar; the guns jerked back on their wheeled carriages, and the hollow iron tubes spat flame and smoke. Their shot whined towards the outer wall of Barnard Castle and thumped into the masonry.

  Their crews, having ducked for cover, immediately set about swabbing out the barrels. Three culverins and a small iron cannon called a falcon. It had proved impossible to collect more on the march. Most of the ordnance in the north was stored in armouries at Carlisle, Berwick and York, beyond the reach of the rebels.

  “Pop-guns,” Westmoreland sneered through a mouthful of bread. Still, when the smoke cleared, he saw the artillery had done some damage. The outer wall of Barnard Castle, eleven yards high and nine yards thick, was severely dented in two places. Another day or so of regular bombardment, and a breach might be opened.

  He washed down his bread with a gulp of wine. Barnard would soon fall. The garrison was made up of local men. Many had kin, friends and neighbours among the rebel army. Every day rebel soldiers stood outside the walls and yelled at those inside to come out and join them.

  It was working: the previous night five members of the garrison had slipped over the wall. They were from Long Eaton, a Derbyshire village, and deserted to join their cousins among the rebels. Sadly they misjudged the height of the jump. One man broke his neck, two others suffered broken legs. The latter tried to crawl towards the rebel siege lines, but were shot dead by harquebus fire from the battlements.

  “Any more deserters will be served the same way!” Sir George Bowes, the royalist commander, was heard to shout. Despite this threat, Westmoreland hoped the trickle of desertions would soon became a flood.

  He certainly didn’t relish sitting for much longer outside this gaunt stronghold on the Tees. It was early December, and the iron grip of winter slowly throttled the land. It had rained every day for the past week, ever since the earls took the fateful decision to turn back from Boroughbridge. As their army tramped north through wind and rain and slush, their chances of victory had sunk ever further into the mud. Just like the wheels of their baggage wagons.

  Westmoreland knew they were desperate. He cursed his own cowardice. His lack of mettle. By now the rebels should have been snugly quartered inside the walls of York, planning a final advance on London. Instead their leaders had failed.

  The earl despised his own cowardice. When it came to the test, Westmoreland had allowed his officers to persuade him to turn away from York and march on Barnard Castle. Taking the castle would remove a threat to our flank, they said. Westmoreland knew their arguments were false, a mere excuse for running away. Yet he had agreed. Pretended this was wise policy, and told Northumberland the same.

  In truth, neither man had the stomach to achieve their aims. Westmoreland was at least honest enough to admit his own flaws. The bravest general among them was Northumberland’s wife, the Countess Anne. Despite being heavily pregnant, she had ridden at her husband’s side since the earliest days of the revolt. Even after having the child, she insisted on accompanying the army.

  As beautiful as she was courageous, the Countess plainly adored her husband. Westmoreland couldn’t fathom why. Northumberland had been nothing but a dead weight on campaign, forever complaining or predicting disaster. He had cravenly agreed with the decision to turn back from Boroughbridge instead of advancing on York. Westmoreland suspected his wife had wanted them to march on, but for once Simple Tom rejected her advice.

  The earl picked moodily at his food. He was chewing the last morsel of bread and cheese when the guns fired again.

  A cheer from the crew made him look up. It rippled and spread through the camp until the air was filled with hundreds of joyful voices. Fervent prayers and psalms rose above the cheers. A priest got up on a cart and brandished the banner of the Five Wounds.

  Brushing crumbs from his beard, Westmoreland ambled over towards the guns. One of the crewmen saw him approach. The man snatched off his cap and pointed excitedly at a part of the castle wall.

  “See, my lord,” he cried, “clean through – the ball went clean through! Crumpled yon pile of old stone like parchment!”

  Westmoreland was pleasantly surprised to see the bombardment had opened a small breach, near the foot of the wall. Nearby, another patch of masonry looked ready to collapse. The guns had done their work far quicker than he hoped.

  “Well done,” he said, clapping each of the crewmen on the shoulder, “well done indeed.”

  That night, another eighty men of the garrison went over the wall. Once again there were casualties, as some hurt themselves on landing or were shot down by outraged comrades. The earls ordered the deserters to be welcomed, given food and shelter and medical aid if they needed it; those who could fight were organised into bands and given bows and arrows, bills and jacks.

  On the following night, a hundred and fifty loyalists deserted their posts. The treachery of the garrison poured a little hope into Westmoreland. Perhaps all was not lost. He asked Northumberland and the Countess to come to his pavilion, where they held a quick council of war.

  “The castle must be taken in the next two days,” he said. “After that, we leave some men to hold it and then go further north. I propose we march on Newcastle.”

  He studied the faces of his guests: Northumberland as ox-like as ever, his beefy face creased in a frown, heavy brows knotted together; the Lady Anne, a black-haired, sloe-eyed beauty, pouting as she mulled it over. Westmoreland’s own wife, Jane Howard, was a dull and dowdy creature by comparison, though loyal. He had left Jane at Brancepeth when the rebels marched, not wishing to expose her to the dangers of a campaign.

  “We failed at York,” Westmoreland patiently explained, “yet the March is still open to us. Lord Dacre is back in the North. He will come to our aid.”

  Northumberland grunted in agreement. Word had arrived several days ago of Crookback Dacre’s return from court. So
far he hadn’t moved from his castle at Naworth, though the earls expected him to join them with money and troops. His younger brother, Edward Dacre, was said to be planning an assault on Carlisle Castle.

  “Newcastle may be not as great a prize as York,” Westmoreland went on, “but it is still a great town, and a useful harbour. If the Crookback joins us, and his brother takes Carlisle, we can yet defy Elizabeth and Sussex.”

  “Your brother holds Newcastle,” the Countess said to her husband. “It will mean fighting your own kin.”

  “There is no other choice,” Westmoreland said bullishly before the other man could respond. “We must win a real victory, and soon, or else wander aimlessly about the country until Elizabeth’s hounds encircle us. It is Newcastle or nothing.”

  Her husband laid his heavy hand, swollen and callused by a lifetime of practice with weapons, on her arm. “There's no help for it, my dear,” he rumbled. “My brother has made his choice. As we made ours. God grant I do not meet him on the battlefield.”

  As Westmoreland hoped, the castle fell swiftly. Another two hundred deserters joined the rebel host, leaving Bowes with just half his garrison. Even some of these turned traitor. On the Saturday, a postern gate was opened inside the wall, and the men on the battlements shouted down to the rebels that they might enter.

  The earls threw their men at the gate. Bowes bravely led his soldiers out to meet them, and a bitter skirmish ensued. Northumberland was in the thickest of the fight, his burly figure clearly visible under the blue lion banner, laying about him with the savagery of an enraged bear.

  Westmoreland hung back and spoke quietly to the crews of the rebel artillery. “Shift your guns over there,” he said, pointing at the exposed flank of the loyalist garrison. “Give them grape.”

  The culverins were swiftly lugged into position. Bowes, who had engaged Northumberland in single combat, failed to see the danger until it was too late. At a signal from Westmoreland, the guns were packed with bags of grapeshot and fired at lethally close range into his men.

  Over sixty of the defenders fell, some horribly injured, others blasted to pieces. A handful of rebels were killed as well, but Westmoreland cared little for these. As the cries of wounded and dying wafted across the field, the surviving loyalists retreated back inside the castle. They managed to close the gate after them, just in time.

  Not for long. That evening Westmoreland went forward under a flag of truce and offered terms.

  “I offer you an honourable withdrawal,” he cried. “You and your men may depart unhindered with all your armour, horses and gear. Everything else will be left behind.”

  Bowes snatched eagerly at the offer. Shortly after dawn the gates opened and his men marched out: some four hundred horse and foot, pipes playing and standards held aloft. Bowes rode at their head, a stiff and dignified figure. He exchanged grave salutes with the earls before riding on, his head held high.

  The Countess Anne smiled at Westmoreland. “You allowed Bowes his dignity,” she remarked. “A clever ruse, my lord.”

  He smiled gallantly in return, and tried to repress lustful thoughts of her white body stripped naked on his bed.

  The men immediately fell to looting the castle. Within hours it was stripped bare, down to the last candle and tablespoon. Some stringy kyne were also found inside. These were slaughtered, quartered and handed out among the soldiers. Then a cry went up that the loyalists had made off with some of the valuables, and a troop of Redesdale men went off in pursuit. Soon enough they came back, singing and laughing, with a few bedraggled prisoners trudging behind them on foot.

  There was no means of restraining the army, especially the reivers. “We must allow them their spoil,” Westmoreland said gloomily, “if that is the price of their loyalty.”

  The only sure way of restoring discipline was to move on. Once the castle was thoroughly sacked, the earls left a small garrison to hold it while the bulk of the host marched north, towards Durham and hence to Newcastle.

  To their dismay, the weather refused to relent. A hailstorm brewed up as the army straggled past Durham. Hailstones rattled like thunder on Westmoreland's steel helmet. Rain fell in sheets, mist clouded the way ahead. The men ploughed miserably on, trudging through a sea of wet, ankle-deep mud. Even the figure of Christ drooped on their ancient banners, the agony of his Five Wounds joined by the chill and discomfort of a northern winter in full spate.

  Northumberland had gone on ahead with the cavalry to secure Newcastle. Late in the afternoon, when the hellish rain had eased off slightly, he returned at the head of his men.

  It was plain they had suffered a defeat. Westmoreland's spirits plunged even lower when he saw them ride out of the murk. Blood oozed from a livid sword-cut on Northumberland's cheek. His armour was smeared in filth and gore, his face a picture of sorrow. The earl’s men looked equally beaten and downcast.

  The Countess cried out in horror and rode forward to attend to her husband. “God has deserted us,” he said while she dabbed her kerchief at his wound. “We met with a strong troop of horse on the road, not three miles from here. They came riding at us out of the mist, like very devils.”

  Tears welled up in his eyes. “They were led by my brother. And old Forster. We tried to fight, Charles, God knows we did, but there were too many...”

  “The road ahead is blocked, then,” said Westmoreland.

  The other man bowed his head. There was no need for an answer. Forster and Henry Percy barred their way to Newcastle. If the rebels advanced, they risked being caught between this force and the loyalist host under Sussex, Hunsdon and Sadler coming up from York.

  With every other route blocked, the army shambled north-west in the vague direction of Hexham. There were few desertions, and the troops bellowed psalms as they marched under a ceaseless barrage of rain, certain that God would rescue them from every difficulty.

  The earls rode listlessly at the head of the column. They said little. Northumberland at least had his wife to comfort him, but Westmoreland was an isolated figure, his mind turned to thoughts of escape and survival.

  Before they could reach Hexham, an exhausted messenger returned from Naworth Castle. Leonard Dacre sent his apologies, but he could offer them no help. Nor could they expect to shelter on his estates. Another soon followed, bearing news that Dacre's younger brother, Edward, had failed to seize Carlisle Castle.

  The Countess, who still had some spirit in her, erupted in fury at Dacre's betrayal. “False, cankered, deformed traitor!” she screamed, raising her hands to the skies. “He posed as our friend! Promised to come to us in person with an army at his back. Now he refuses us admittance to his house!”

  “He looks to his own future,” Westmoreland said bleakly, “as we all must.”

  Then the hammer-blow fell. In late December, just a few days before Christmas, a band of scouts came in with dreadful tidings from the south. Sussex had set out from York at last. He was at Darlington with twelve thousand men. More joined them by the hour. Meanwhile the Queen's ships had arrived at Hartlepool and were poised to storm the harbour.

  “It is the end,” said Northumberland. He, his wife and Westmoreland stood together on the road in a huddle. Their clothes were spattered with mud, rain beat down on their heads. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled and played on the invisible hills.

  “I propose we run,” Westmoreland said dejectedly, “while we still can. Take as many riders as will follow us. Get over the border into Scotland. The infantry will have to take their chances.”

  Northumberland's face, haggard and ghastly in defeat, now resembled a pockmarked white pudding. “Where can we go?” he replied hoarsely. “Not to the Scottish court. Moray would clap us in chains and deliver us straight to Elizabeth.”

  Westmoreland gave him a bitter smile, devoid of mirth.

  “Go? Why, to the one refuge left to us. Liddesdale.”

  14.

  An uneasy peace stole over the Border. After the flight of the rebel earls, m
any of their March riders dispersed and stole quietly back to Redesdale and Tynedale. The rebellion, which had briefly threatened to flare into an all-out civil war, fizzled out like a matchlock in damp weather.

  For lack of anywhere else to go, Richie and his band had returned to the damp shelter of Hope’s End in the heart of the Black Moss. On Christmas Day they slaughtered one of Adam’s beasts, and feasted on bloody red beef and a cask of Sir Cuthbert Collingwood’s rich October ale.

  The meal cheered them, as did the fire glowing merrily in the hearth of the old bastle. With Ruth at his side, and a drunken Davy singing ballads of Johnny Armstrong, Richie allowed himself a few short hours of contentment.

  “What of the future?” Ruth asked sleepily, her head resting on his shoulder.

  “Don’t think of it,” he replied. “All will come right, you’ll see.”

  Then the long-expected snow started to fall. The Black Moss turned to white, and the treacherous marshes were covered in a blanket of ice. Snug inside their bastle, the outlaws rarely ventured to hunt out until well after the New Year, when they started to tire of the beef diet.

  Early in January they received a visitor. Richie was seated outside one bright, chill day, honing a new edge on his dirk, when a rider simply appeared on the path before him.

  He materialised suddenly, like a ghost. The newcomer was a young man, strikingly tall and rangy and handsome, and rode a black hobbler. He wore a heavy overcoat against the cold and his bonnet at a jaunty angle with a goose feather pinned to it.

  “Good day to you,” said this apparition in a thick Scots accent, touching a forefinger to the brim of his bonnet. “I’m looking for Richie Reade. Might you be the fellow I seek?”

  He spoke courteously, though Richie took more notice of his gear: a padded jack under his deerskin doublet, two holstered pistols, steel cap under the bonnet, ballock dagger, lance and basket-hilted broadsword. The man smiled pleasantly, but his right hand rested lightly on the pommel.