Reiver Page 8

  Nicholas bustled away, yelling for Tweddle, his father’s secretary. Meanwhile Forster laced his fingers together and gazed into the flame of a candle set in an iron wick on the table.

  The Warden was gathering his strength. He appreciated the scale of the rebellion, what was needed to break it. Much of the responsibility lay on him.

  I am old.

  Never did he feel his age more than in winter months on the Border, when the chill seemed to eat into his bones. When his entire body ached with old wounds. The most recent one, taken in the skirmish near Alnwick, throbbed every hour of every day.

  He set his jaw in a grim line. Our defences must hold. Or I shall lie in the ground for it.

  In the following days a blizzard of urgent messages descended on Hexham. Forster had posted scouts everywhere along the Border, every castle and town and village. Now these men came racing with their news.

  Forster and his captains were hard-put to digest it all. Northumberland had marched south to rescue Mary Stewart from captivity. Westmoreland’s Catholic tenants had raised his standard at Brancepeth in County Durham, south of the Middle March. Unopposed, they marched on Durham Cathedral, tore the Great Bible from its lectern and set light to the prayer books.

  “Let them burn paper,” sneered Nicholas. “They shall need to burn powder soon enough.”

  Forster didn’t share his son’s bullish confidence. Sussex had been warned, but there was no sign of his reinforcements from York. Without royal troops from the south, Forster had little hope of smashing the revolt on his own.

  For he was alone. His colleague Lord Scrope, Warden of the West March, had enough to do guarding his part of the Border against Liddesdale. Lord Hunsdon, Warden of the East March, was at court in London. Hunsdon much preferred the gentler climes of the south country to the harshness of northern winters.

  Small blame to him, thought Forster. He wished his colleague was present. Hunsdon was a tall, vigorous, red-haired man with the Devil’s own temper. He was rumoured to be a bastard son of old King Harry, the Queen’s father of late and not very lamented memory.

  Forster thought this quite likely. Hunsdon certainly resembled the old brute in appearance and temperament. When he could be persuaded to come north, Hunsdon was also a lethally effective Warden. The scaffolds and gibbets of his March were loaded down with rotting feasts for crows, and many of the riding Names had learned to give his territory a wide berth.

  Alone or not, Forster could not afford to sit idle. He and his son hurriedly sketched out a plan of campaign. “Go to York,” ordered Forster, “give my lord Sussex a hand. Help him raise men, bring them north as soon as you may.”

  Nicholas nodded. “What of you?” he asked sharply.

  Forster’s red-rimmed eyes studied a map of the Border country. “I shall raise the garrison at Berwick,” he answered, “and do what I can.”

  Thus it was settled. Nicholas galloped away to put fresh heart and energy into the hapless lieutenant. Forster rode north-east to Berwick. The fate of the North, and the security of Queen Elizabeth’s throne, now rested squarely upon his aged shoulders.

  He rode through the night. Berwick came in sight just as dawn broke in the east. The old fortress-town was in a poor state of repair, the ditches filled with rubbish and the walls in a state of decay. True to form, Elizabeth refused to spend money on the upkeep, despite the pleas of her Wardens.

  Forster longed to rest, to stretch his aching bones on a bed. Just for a few hours. He pushed aside his weakness. Speed was everything. Fail now, and the north was lost. At midday he rode out from Berwick at the head of his lancers, some two hundred men, bolstered by another four hundred taken from the Berwick garrison.

  An evil winter had descended on the Border. The soldiers travelled along bad roads made worse by foul weather, past dank fields covered in banks of low-lying mist. Storms of wind and rain swept the hills beyond, flashes of lightning stabbed at the tops.

  Forster drove his men on through the murk. He knew the Marches like the back of his hand and could have found his way through them blindfold. With luck his enemies would be fool enough to underrate him.

  Let them think the old man is tucked up by the fire with his posset, wrapped up in a warm blanket, he prayed, striving to ignore the twinges and shooting pains in his joints.

  His armour weighed heavier on him by the mile. Rain lashed at his face, hammered against the steel dome of his morion. It seemed the very elements wished to drive him back, behind the refuge of Berwick’s decaying walls. He put his head down, struggled onward. After ten miles his horse foundered and had to be swapped for a remount.

  His target was Alnwick, the great fortress of the Earls of Northumberland, thirty miles to south of Berwick. He took his men down the coast road, lashed all the way by rain and vicious winds driving in from foaming grey seas.

  At last the clouds parted a little, the hellish rainfall eased, and he beheld the sprawling grey pile of the castle. The blue lion banner of the Percies, limp and bedraggled in the wet, flew from every tower.

  Alnwick was a fearsomely strong place, though not impregnable. Cannon would make short work of its ancient walls and ramparts. In his furious dash, Forster had left the artillery train behind at Berwick, with orders to his engineers to follow as soon as possible. In this weather, the roads churned into a quagmire, they might take days to arrive.

  Forster went forward to hail the sentry on the barbican. Fearing an arrow, he halted just out of bowshot and raised his lance.

  “Sir John Forster, Warden of the Middle March,” he shouted, straining his voice, “commands you to surrender this castle in the name of Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth.”

  His eyesight was a little blurred these days, but he could only see one man on the rampart above the main gate. The sentry stuck up his middle finger in obscene salute.

  “Shit on you, Jack Forster!” he bawled. “Come any closer and we'll stick your rusty old hide with shafts!”

  Forster jerked his thumb at the soldiers behind him. “I have six hundred men at my back.”

  “Aye,” shouted the other, “and that's where they'll stay! You have no cannon, and your matchlocks won’t fire in the rain! How do you propose to get through these walls – by breaking wind?”

  Laughter sounded inside the gatehouse. Forster imagined the faces peering down at him through slit windows.

  “No,” he replied calmly, “I'll just wait out here. The guns are on their way from Berwick. When they arrive, perhaps rusty old Jack Forster will have a bit of sport.”

  There was no reply. Forster smiled. His agents had already given him a good idea of the garrison Percy left inside Alnwick, their stores and ammunition. Less than fifty men, a parcel of hapless loons, foresters, gamekeepers, clerks and the like. Percy's tenants, left behind to guard the castle while he marched off with his real soldiers.

  Rabble though they were, Forster hoped the garrison didn't call his bluff. They could hold out for days while his cannon trundled down the coast, carried on the back of ox-drawn wagons. He needed to take the castle quickly and then move on to the other Percy fortress at Warkworth, a few miles further south.

  “Come,” he shouted after moistening his throat with a swallow of ale, “let's not prolong this dance. Lay down your arms, haul down that bloody lion, open the gates and surrender yourselves. Then you can all go home. None of you will be harmed. My word upon it.”

  “Your word!” the sentry cried after a long pause. “When has the word of Jack Forster ever been worth more than a dog's piss?”

  “We know you of old, Forster,” added another voice, “the most wicked villain this side of the March. Do you not connive at every turn with the Scots? Send innocent men to the gallows, seize their goods, release bloody-handed murderers, neglect your March in every way, merely to secure your own profit? Man, we might as well have a wolf for a Warden!”

  Forster was unmoved by these bitter words. Most of the charges had some truth to them – all, if he was truly
honest with himself, and more besides – but he was not the rebel here, in arms against the Queen's grace.

  “Waste your breath while you have it,” he answered, turning away. “I will shortly knock down this old hen-coop of a castle and hang every mother's son inside.”

  His threats hit the mark. Barely two hours later, just as Forster was contemplating the dismal prospect of a night under canvas, the lion banner on the keep was hauled down. Then, to the relieved cheers of his men, the gates opened. The drawbridge came down with a rattle of chains, and the iron griddle of the portcullis winched upwards.

  Out came the garrison, an embarrassed troupe of sorry clowns, ridiculous in borrowed armour. Forster shook his head as he watched them march hopelessly out of step, jostling each other and tripping over their pikes. How long had Percy imagined these lackwits would hold Alnwick?

  They gathered before him in an anxious huddle. Their captain, a farmer by the grizzled look of him, came forward and went down on one knee.

  “My lord, we beg pardon,” he said, taking the iron pot off his head. “We are humble men, and only sought to do as our lord bade us.”

  “Then you were humble bloody fools,” Forster replied sternly. “Your lord is a traitor. No man is compelled to obey traitors, whatever their station.”

  “Still,” he added more amicably, “you surrendered readily enough. No blood has been spilled. Go back to your homes and families. Away, before the wolf remembers his appetite.”

  After the garrison had dispersed, every man to his home, Forster set off for Warkworth. The second Percy fortress lay some seven miles away, even nearer to the coast. Forster drew in a sharp breath at the sight of the monstrous barbican and multi-towered keep, throwing jagged silhouettes against the skyline. This place had served as a nest for rebels in ages past and hurled defiance at kings.

  Percy had left it no better guarded than Alnwick. Again Forster threw the same challenge at the walls, again the motley garrison chose to surrender: this time with even greater haste. Forster let the fools go, and found himself master of two of the mightiest castles in the North.

  Not a bad day’s work, he reflected happily, rubbing his hands.

  Forster’s criminal instincts took over. Loyalty deserved reward, to his mind, and here was his. He sent men into Alnwick and Warkworth with instructions to strip them clean – furnishings, wall hangings, plate, jewellery, candlesticks, clothing, paintings, money, bed sheets, armour, weapons. This great heap of plunder was then carted off to his own estates scattered about the Marches. Forster’s army of clerks would arrange to sell the lot at inflated prices and earn their master a handsome profit.

  While this wholesale larceny took place, Forster sat in the great hall, drank the best wine from Percy’s cellar and discussed further plans with his officers.

  “The rebels should be into Yorkshire by now,” said one. “They will have men at Hartlepool, to seize the port for their Spanish allies.”

  Forster snorted, dripping wine down his beard. “Spanish allies! Now the winter storms have come, His Grace the Duke of Alva is not likely to bring his fleet to England.”

  He chuckled at the thought of an army of shivering, bedraggled Spaniards, trudging about northern England in the grip of winter. Part of him hoped Alva would come, so Forster could sink his fleet and earn the Queen’s undying gratitude.

  The Warden turned his mind to more pressing matters. Before riding from Berwick, he had sent men to guard the passes in the Cheviots and the line of the Middle March, to stop any more Catholics coming south to join the rebel earls. Alnwick and Warkworth had fallen without a shot fired in anger. Between them, Moray and Scrope should be able to hold the Scottish reiver families in place.

  Bar some unforeseen catastrophe, the Border was secure. The danger lay further south, in Durham and Yorkshire. Sussex, that incompetent oaf, was doubtless still scratching about for soldiers. Hopefully Nicholas should chivvy him along.

  Forster smacked his lips. Percy really did keep an excellent cellar. “If Northumberland and Westmoreland have any brains at all,” he said, “they will march on York with all haste. Once the greatest city in the North was in their possession, the rebel earls could snap their fingers at Her Majesty in London.”

  He belched. “They won’t, though. Northumberland’s first desire is to release Mary Stewart from prison. God grant Mary’s gaolers have moved her beyond their reach. Better still, cut her pretty head off. French Mary’s head in a basket! A fitting gift for Simple Tom.”

  Forster laughed again. A few of his officers laughed with him, others frowned in disapproval. Aware the wine was making him light-headed, Forster set down his cup – a solid silver goblet with floral garland decoration very fine – and tried to look serious.

  “Tomorrow I go to Newcastle,” he said, “and join Henry Percy. I’ll leave proper garrisons to hold Alnwick and Warkworth. Fifty men each should be enough.”

  Forster snatched up a bit of bread and soaked it in wine. “The rebels will be caught between two fires. Our forces advancing from Newcastle, Sussex coming up from York. We shall squeeze them, my lads. Just so.”

  He closed his hand into a fist, crushing the bread. Drops of red wine spattered the table.

  The Warden grinned savagely, and this time all his officers saw the joke.

  10.

  “Liddesdale is mounting a raid,” said Cleave-Crown, “a big one this time. It’s the talk of the villages.”

  Richie poked at the ash in the hearth with his sword. It was midmorning, and he and his cousin sat in the upper chamber of the bastle at Hope’s End.

  Their companions were out hunting. Richie had sent Ruth with Davy and Adam, to keep Davy from trying anything with the lad.

  “I thought Moray was keeping Liddesdale quiet on the Scottish side,” he said, “they dare not cross into the West March with keen Lord Scrope on the alert. An old slew-hound, he is.”

  “Aye,” replied Cleave-Crown, “which is why they plan to come through the eastern end of the Middle March. Over the Cheviots. With Forster absent, and so many troops taken from the garrisons, there is little to stop them. Moray cannot send his troops onto English soil without angering the Queen.”

  Richie considered for a moment. Seven days ago, wishing to keep abreast of affairs in the March, he had sent Cleave-Crown out to gather news. His cousin had knocked about a bit, and was a familiar face in many of the farms and villages along the Border. He was popular, too, especially with women. Charming when he wanted to be, able to cut or talk his way out of most situations, he made an ideal spy.

  “They must pass near the Black Moss,” said Richie. “If only I had more men! We could have savaged their flank as they rode by. Is there any word of their numbers?”

  The other man shifted uncomfortably on his stool, one of the pieces of old furniture the outlaws had found tucked away in the outbuildings. The stool was rickety, and the legs threatened to crack under Cleave-Crown’s weight.

  “Anywhere from two hundred to a thousand,” he answered, “depending who you talk to, and how much ale they’ve taken on board. Just Armstrongs this road, so they say. Maybe a few Kerrs and Scotts as well.”

  Richie clasped his hands together. There had to be some way of hitting the Armstrongs. The men who slaughtered his family would soon be within his reach, and what must he do? Sit and cower, helpless, inside this gloomy old byre while his enemies rode past.

  No, he decided. It wouldn’t do. Risks had to be taken. “We’ll shadow them,” he said, “see where they mean to go and warn the local garrisons. Rouse the March.”

  He stood up. “That’s it. The Armstrongs won’t expect to meet any opposition. If we act quickly, raise enough fighting men, we can snare the buggers. Wipe them out.”

  The words of an old song rose to his lips:

  “Away, away, thou traitor strang,

  Out o’ my sight soon may’st thou be,

  I granted never a traitor’s life,

  And now I’ll not begin wi
th thee!”

  A glorious prospect unfolded in Richie’s mind. The Armstrongs slaughtered, their bodies scattered across a moor like so many leaves in autumn. Perhaps this explained his dreams of stricken battlefields? Nebless Will Armstrong taken alive, along with a handful of his folk, and given over to Richie for punishment.

  Part of his prophecy had already come true. As well as news of Liddesdale, Cleave-Crown fetched back news of the rebels in Durham. How they had stormed into the cathedral and ripped the prayers books from their lecterns. Scattered and burnt the pages, just as Richie saw in his dream.

  His cousin looked doubtful. “You can expect no help from the Deputy at Hexham,” he said, scratching his bristly chin. “Forster has left Captain Musgrave in charge. They say the brute does nothing but sit in his chair in all day, slopping down ale and sack until he falls to the floor.”

  “I've no intention of going to Hexham,” replied Richie, “to be strung up or cast in gaol. There are other garrisons. Harbottle, maybe, or Alnwick. Even Berwick, if we ride swift enough. The Bewcastle watch to the west, if their captain can spare the men.”

  His cousin still didn't look convinced. Richie grasped the big man's shoulder and gave him a shake. “This is our chance, John!” he cried. “Our one chance, maybe. The ghosts of our kin cannot avenge themselves. They are watching us, from Heaven or Hell or wherever the Reades go once this life is done.”

  Cleave-Crown's mouth twitched into a smile. “You will get me killed yet, Richie O'the Bow.”

  Richie laid out his plan, such as it was, before the others when they returned from the hunt. They had managed to shoot a few hares and woodcock, though the outlaws were not short of meat. Adam's kyne now occupied the ground floor of the bastle. Richie was saving them for the depths of winter, when game might be hard to come by.

  Davy and Ruth were as hot for revenge on the Armstrongs as their chief. “Aye, let's ride out,” snarled Davy, eyes glittering as he fingered one of his wicked little knives. “It's high time I slit a few Armstrong throats. When I think of what they did to the bairns at Crowhame...”