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  “Quit your noise,” croaked Forster. “I want a jug of sack and a plate of beef and tatties. Then I’m away to my bed for a few days.”

  Tweddle sniffed, and exchanged nervous glances with Jane. “There’s a message waiting for you inside,” he said. “You might want to look at it first. It’s from Liddesdale.”

  The Warden furrowed his brows and gestured at the grooms to help him inside. Leaning on their shoulders, he hobbled through the narrow entrance passage to the hall.

  Inside was cool semi-darkness, lit by a fire in the hearth and two iron candlewicks on the high table, where he and his family took their meals.

  Below high table were a couple of rough trestle tables. The rest of the household dined off these. A wicker basket rested on one of them. Flies buzzed over it.

  “There,” said Tweddle, indicating the basket, “with a note attached.”

  Forster warily limped over to the table. He looked down at the contents of the basket and sighed heavily.

  “Oh, you stupid old bugger,” he grunted.

  Inside lay the severed head of Archie Bell, headman of Crowhame. His mouth was open, his eyes glassy, his straggling white locks smeared with blood.

  A ragged strip of parchment was nailed to the side of the basket. Forster stooped to peer at the dreadful handwriting scrawled across it.

  To good Sir John – it read – a gift from Liddesdale, and a reminder.

  “Word reached us yesterday morning,” said Tweddle. “The previous night sixty Armstrongs and Nixons fell upon Crowhame and razed it to the ground. Killed every one of the Reades, down to the last child took away all the beasts. I sent some troopers to investigate. They found the basket dangling from a chestnut tree next the farmhouse.”

  For a long moment Forster couldn’t speak. His wife, his bastard son, his secretary and the pair of grooms watched him fearfully.

  The explosion of wrath didn’t come. Forster was too tired, and he had half-expected something like this anyway. He pushed away the twinge of conscience.

  “I pity Archie Bell,” he declared, “but he was a dead man from the moment his nephew shot down Anton Armstrong. In his heart he knew that too.”

  “What should we do?” asked Nicholas. His father glared at him balefully.

  “Just this,” Forster snapped, “you go rub down your horse and see to the billeting of the men. As for me, I’m going to take off this wretched dirty armour, have a good supper, and then away to my bed.”

  7.

  Charles Neville, Earl of Westmoreland, tore off his bonnet and hurled it into the fire. This was his habit when agitated, and it cost him a deal of money on new bonnets.

  “Moray is hitting Liddesdale again,” he cried, waving the letter at his allies, “and this time he’s put the fear of God into the lot of them. Armstrongs, Johnstones, Elliots, Grahams – they’ve all come in to make their peace with him. The craven bastards! If this goes on, we shall have no allies left on the Scottish side of the Border.”

  His companions said nothing. Leonard Dacre, known as Crookback after the twisted spine that made one shoulder slightly higher than the other, sat in the window seat and looked at his hands. A small man, lean and active and possessed of a quicksilver mind, he was rarely short of an answer. Now, however, he seemed at a loss.

  The other man present was Thomas Percy, alias Simple Tom, Earl of Northumberland. Tall and hefty and red-haired, he stood near the door with an expression of animal stupidity on his florid face. He toyed with the garnet ring on the middle finger of his left hand, mouth working silently.

  They were in a high solar chamber of Westmoreland’s castle at Brancepeth. The comfortably furnished lodgings were on an upper floor of the keep, safe from the prying ears of servants. Westmoreland had chosen one of the smallest rooms for this meeting, and set a trusted guard on the door. His wife, who knew the dangerous games her husband played, obligingly made herself scarce.

  Since he got no answer, Westmoreland resorted to biting his nails. “Damn Moray,” he snarled, glaring furiously into the fire. “The Regent will upset all our plans.”

  Dacre looked up. “They already lie in tatters,” he said in his soft Cumbrian burr. “The Queen knows all. Gentlemen, we are laid by the heels.”

  Percy gave a start, as though someone had goosed him. Westmoreland clapped a hand to his face and leaned his brow against the wall. Both men looked on the point of despair.

  “I should never have entered into this hare-brained conspiracy,” cried Percy, finding his voice, “it was doomed from the start. The Queen has agents everywhere. Her spies, no doubt, have penetrated into my own household. Her spider Walsingham sits in London and weaves webs to snare us all.”

  He referred to Francis Walsingham, Queen Elizabeth’s spymaster. Recently a summons had arrived from London, ordering Percy to come south to answer suspicions of treason. The same message was sent to Westmoreland and Dacre, hence this emergency meeting at Brancepeth.

  The earl wrung his hands. “We encouraged each other in our delusions,” he wailed. “What if – what if Walsingham intercepted our letters to Spain and the Holy See? God help us! Our necks shall be forfeit!”

  Westmoreland glanced at him with contempt. It was true they had been in correspondence with Catholic Spain, and even discussed plans for the Duke of Alva to bring an invasion fleet to Hartlepool. The Pope, ever keen to rock Elizabeth’s throne, had sent them their blessing. No Spanish fleet had materialised, and the Pope’s blessing was so much useless parchment. Moray’s second brutally effective campaign against the reivers of Liddesdale, just eight months after the first, promised to destroy any hope of support from Scotland. The strength of Mary Stewart’s support lay on the Border, where the old religion died hard.

  “We may be desperate,” said Dacre after a long silence, “but we’re not done. Walsingham may think he has us in the palm of his hand. Yet even that subtle gentleman can be fooled.”

  He ran a hand through his neat little black beard. “I will go south,” he went on, “and offer myself as a distraction. Crawl before Her Majesty; dismiss the charges against me as vile rumours; declare I am her faithful subject. Her dog. Kneel and kiss her lily-white hand. Her backside, if she demands it. Whatever is necessary to buy time.”

  Westmoreland eyed him sceptically. It was difficult to imagine this pale little crookback winning the famously tough-minded Queen over with his roguish charms.

  He was suspicious of Dacre. True, the man was a Catholic, but motivated by personal gain rather than any desire to depose Elizabeth or restore the true faith to England. A few months ago Dacre’s nephew had broken his neck falling from a vaulting-horse while at exercise. Instead of bestowing the dead man’s estates and title on Dacre, canny Queen Elizabeth gave them to the Howards, who were loyal Protestants.

  The snub ate away at Dacre like a sickness. He longed to be Baron Dacre. Would commit any treason to achieve it. Westmoreland understood the man’s ambition, but this was a war of faith: a battle, in the earl’s mind, between the powers of light and darkness. Petty disputes over estates and titles came second to the vital task of restoring England’s soul.

  “Elizabeth Tudor,” said Westmoreland, “God rot her for a heretical Welsh bitch, is no fool. What excuse could you give her for our absence?”

  “None,” Dacre replied. “While I am at court, making a fool of myself, you must raise the standard of rebellion. To hell with Moray and Liddesdale. We have enough troops and support on this side of the Border. The Scottish reivers may have failed us, but the men of Redesdale and Tynedale still hold to the true faith.”

  Westmoreland’s depressed spirits surged again. He was ever thus – up one moment, down the next, entirely unpredictable, even to himself. Proud and restless and ambitious, he was also touchy in his pride, and took grave offence at the least insult.

  Unlike the others, he had come armed to the meeting – in case of ambush, so he said. In truth the earl fancied himself a great soldier. He loved to swagger about
in back and breast, rapier dangling from his hip, holstered pistol strapped to his thigh.

  “Yes!” he exclaimed, clapping his gloved hands together. “A bold stroke. A swift strike, before our enemies can gather their wits. But what if the Queen detains you?

  “She won’t,” Dacre said, with more than a hint of smugness. “Once I have persuaded her of my loyalty, I’ll beg leave to come back north and help suppress your vile rebellion. Thus she will deliver me back to my friends.”

  The audacity of his plan lit a fire in Westmoreland. “Brave,” he shouted, “oh, brave!”

  He looked at Percy, who still stood like an ox in the furrow, his red head swaying dumbly from side to side.

  “Of course,” said Westmoreland, “our task would be a great deal simpler if Sir John Forster no longer drew breath. We have your brother to thank for that, my lord.”

  Percy swallowed hard. “I cannot dictate Henry’s conscience,” he said hoarsely. “We all agreed to let him know of our plans. Never did I suspect he would betray us.”

  Henry Percy was as staunch a Catholic as his brother, and the conspirators had expected him to throw his weight behind their rebellion. Instead, informed of the plan to lure Forster into a deadly ambush near Alnwick, he rode out with his men to pluck the old Warden’s fat out of the fire.

  Since then Henry had fled south, and was last seen heading for the safety of Newcastle. As yet he appeared to have sent no word to London, warning of his brother’s treason. Westmoreland prayed he kept his mouth shut, at least until the rebels had time to organise.

  A bullet in the back of his skull would provide greater surety, he thought, if it could be arranged.

  He glanced at Thomas Percy. Not for the first time, Westmoreland weighed his fellow earl in the balance and found him wanting. Physically at least, Percy was no coward. He had served as Warden of both the East and Middle March, and shown himself ready enough to charge into combat against bands of vicious reivers.

  Morally, however, Westmoreland rated him spineless, easily led and bullied against his will. Combined with his lack of intelligence, these defects made Percy the weakest link in the chain of conspiracy. He was also the most powerful in terms of wealth and soldiers.

  There was no help for it. Without the Earl of Northumberland’s backing, the rebellion was doomed to fail. He would just have to be led around by the nose.

  “We are agreed, then,” Westmoreland said decisively, “my lord Dacre shall go south to answer the Queen’s summons. Meantime we shall gather arms and men. Much has already been prepared. I propose we raise our standard a month from this day.”

  Dacre nodded in approval. The coming winter promised to be especially foul, even by Border standards. Snow already tumbled on the high hills. Northerners were used to fighting and riding in all weathers, but government troops from the gentler south would find themselves marching into a quagmire. Westmoreland smiled thinly as he imagined long lines of bedraggled troopers struggling miserably along the dreadful roads, buffeted by wind and rain and freezing sleet. The riders of Redesdale and Tynedale, superb light cavalry, would cut them to pieces.

  An even more delightful image filled his mind. Queen Elizabeth – no, the vile heretic Elizabeth Tudor – clapped in irons and consigned to a dungeon in the Tower, where she had sent so many others.

  Westmoreland would make sure he was the first to greet Queen Mary into London. The first to kiss her hand, and accept the new monarch’s grateful thanks. The name of Charles Neville, Earl of Westmoreland, would live forever in posterity. The man who saved England from herself, drove out the Protestant heresy, and restored the good old faith for all time.

  Percy’s voice shattered these glorious daydreams. “No,” the earl whined, “this is madness. I won’t have any part in it. The Queen will find out and destroy us all. We must give it up – now, while we still can!”

  Westmoreland glared at the other man with loathing. “We have been planning this affair for months,” he growled. “Now the grip has come, you mean to abandon us?”

  “I…I allowed myself to be carried along,” stammered Percy, backing away. His massive back pressed against the chamber’s solid iron-bound door.

  “Damn your craven hide,” shrieked Westmoreland, spittle flying from his lips, “do you think I ask for your help?”

  He tore out his pistol from the holster, stepped towards Percy and pressed the barrel against the earl’s brow.

  The gun was ready to fire. All he needed to do was squeeze the trigger. The door would be coated with Simple Tom’s brains. Such as they were.

  Could he do it? In a rage, Westmoreland was capable of anything. He trembled with the effort of restraining himself. His heart pounded. Blood rushed and sang in his ears.

  “This serves no purpose,” said Dacre, his voice calm and controlled. “Put up your gun, Charles. Please. Thomas has no intention of deserting us. Do you, my lord?”

  Percy’s light blue eyes were full of mortal terror. “I misspoke,” he whispered. “A moment of weakness. Nothing more. Forgive me.”

  His surrender eased the tension. Westmoreland slowly got his temper under control. The red fog cleared before his eyes. Nevertheless, he didn’t lower the gun.

  “When I give the word,” he said through clenched teeth, “you will raise the blue lion banner and muster your fighting men. All of them. You will march with us, in the cause of God and Mary Stewart and the true Catholic Church, to whatever end. We are bound in this together. Only death can break us apart. Do you understand?

  “My lord,” he added as an afterthought.

  Percy’s chest heaved as he drew in a deep, shuddering breath.

  “I do,” he replied.

  8.

  There was plenty of game in the Black Moss, if a man was patient and knew where to look for it. Richie, a keen hunter since childhood, spent the morning outdoors with his bow, stalking the woods and meres.

  When it started to grow dark, he returned to Hope’s End with a brace of pheasants slung over his shoulder. “Shame we have no snares,” he remarked cheerfully to his companions, “we could catch a few rabbits.”

  Richie had left the others to clean up the old bastle and make it fit to live in. “I found the ladder,” said Davy. “It was stored away in one of the huts.”

  He jerked his thumb at the ladder, which now rested against the eastern gable end of the bastle, under the door to the upper chamber. These were the living quarters. If Hope’s End was attacked, the occupants could scramble inside and heave the ladder up after them.

  “Find much upstairs?” Richie asked.

  Davy shrugged. “Nothing of value. A few bits of furniture, couple of old stools, bundles of kindling. Smashed cups and plates. A child’s doll. Seems the place was abandoned in a hurry. The fireplace is good, though. We can keep warm.”

  It was a fine day, and Ruth offered to cook in the open air. Richie could tell she was reluctant to spend too long inside Hope’s End. For her, the malicious spirit of the old laird still hung over it.

  They ate pheasant scalding hot, in the open air, with the bird plucked and crucified on sticks over a peat fire. Cleave-Crown took their water bottles and filled them from the burn, so they could wash down the hot roasted meat.

  “This is all very well,” he remarked, wiping his greasy fingers on the grass, “but I don’t care to live off a few skinny birds for the rest of my life. We need proper meat, decent beef or venison or a bit of mutton. I’ve seen no deer in these marshes.”

  Silence fell, broken only by the crackling of twigs on the fire. Richie chewed slowly, aware of the others watching him. Expecting. Once again he felt the burden of leadership on his young shoulders.

  He knew what Cleave-Crown wanted. To ride out and lift a few beasts from some farmstead. Drive them back into the Black Moss, where their lawful owners dared not follow.

  Richie sighed. His kin were born reivers, every bit as bad as the Armstrongs or Elliots or any other of the Named families. Nor was he any di
fferent. Richie also felt the pull of the foray, an instinct bred of generations, urging him to take what he needed to live. Take it by force and theft, knock down any man who stood in his way.

  What if he refused? Cleave-Crown would ride out anyway. Davy too, probably. Ruth would look at him with disappointment. She also had reiver blood in her veins. Her father had been killed by Bewcastle troopers, fellow Englishmen, in the act of stealing kyne on a raid into the West March.

  “Tomorrow, then,” said Richie, “we’ll go looking for some meat.”

  They spent the night inside the living quarters of the bastle. As Davy had said, the fireplace was still serviceable. It was made of stone, projecting from the gable end opposite the entrance, with a timber and plaster hood. It also had a chimney, built into the thickest part of the wall. Ruth and Davy set to clearing old ash and bird droppings from the hearth, before using the bundles of kindling to build a fire.

  The floor was made of stone flags, set over a framework of stout timber joists. There were no rugs or carpets, so the outlaws slept wrapped up in their cloaks, just as they had in the forest. Richie lay awake until he was sure Davy and Cleave-Crown were fast asleep. Then he and Ruth made love with quiet, clinging intensity. Meanwhile the dying embers of the fire snapped and crackled and a ghostly night wind whistled through the slit windows.

  In the cold grey of dawn, after a quick breakfast, the outlaws rode out of the Black Moss. Their hobblers had spent the night in the old stable, where they rested on old straw and fed off oats: every reiver carried a bag of oats in a linen bag to keep his mount in prime fettle.

  Richie led his band north-west into the Cheviot hills, heading towards Redeswire. He knew the farms scattered about the windblown hills, which farmer could best afford to lose some of his stock. As a sop to his conscience, he wanted to avoid robbing poor hill men, many of whom only had a few stringy beasts to their name.

  Soon enough they heard the screams. Two shrill voices carried on the breeze. Full of pain, terror, anguish. The outlaws halted and looked about for the source. Their hobblers snorted in fear at the terrible noise.