V Masters - The Castilians - A Story of the Siege of St Andrews Castle

All is still once more. The servant from the house behind is in the byre, talking to the cows. The gate opens wide and out she comes, leading the beasts to pasture. Bethia rocks from one foot to the other; should she go home and fetch Father? A group of men, including John Leslie, come charging down the street, alarming the cows who grow skittish and scatter before them, knocking her out of the way.

The men are armed and their blood is up, ready for a fight. The porter, alarmed, tries to close the gate – but they’re too quick. They leap onto the bridge and she can see the raised arm of the foremost, dirk glinting in his hand and then the quick slash as he stabs the porter once, then twice, in the chest. Then he’s tossed into the dry moat, like a slaughtered beast.

There’s a wail from behind. The servant too has seen the porter stabbed, and sinks to her knees. She screams, long and loud, until Bethia kneels to hush her, when she settles to whimpering. High above a figure appears at a window, gazing down upon them, and then vanishes.

The men have disappeared inside and the gate is unguarded. She crosses quickly but there’s a great shouting from within and she hesitates, then retreats to the shelter of the house. The servant girl has run away and left her cows milling in the street, while people spill from their homes, looking to one another for an explanation.

She must get Will out, otherwise he’ll go the way of George Wishart. She knows he believes in the preachings of Martin Luther, but surely that does not condone the brutal killing of an innocent porter. But no one has looked; perhaps the porter is still alive. The idea of clambering into the stinking fosse has her skin crawling, but the thought of how long she’ll be condemned to purgatory if she leaves him lying injured drives her forward. The shouting from inside the castle grows louder as she again crosses the unsafe space between it and the houses. Teetering on the edge of the deep ditch, she slides down on her buttocks. By God’s bones, it smells bad. The porter is lying, arms outstretched, atop the rubbish. Drawing closer she sees his eyes are wide open, no doubt surprised to be catapulted into purgatory so abruptly. She’ll pay for masses to be said for his soul; then his time there should be as swift as his dying, she hopes.

She clambers back up, resolved to race up the ramp into the castle. Then she will find Will and drag him home before he destroys his own, and his family’s, future. She’s nearly at the top of the fosse when suddenly men are running out through the gate. She can see their bare feet level with her eyes. Where are their boots? Her eyes travel upwards; driven from behind like cattle, they’re naked as newborn babes, their pizzles slapping against their legs as they escape down the drawbridge and across the castle forecourt.

The townsfolk crowding in front of the castle, watch open mouthed, while Bethia peeps through her fingers. The last naked man is chased out, followed by a great herd of workmen. At least they have been allowed to keep their clothes. Then the gate is shut. She hesitated too long and won’t easily gain entry to the castle now. She runs back to join the watchers. Someone grips her arm. It is Father, but she’s too stunned by what has happened to be afraid of his anger.

‘What are ye doing here? This is no place for a lass, and with all they naked soldiers running about.’

Soldiers? By the blood of Christ, Will and his co-conspirators have made the soldiers strip and chased them out. She leans in to whisper to Father that Will is inside, that they must get him out, but the Provost, Sir James Learmonth, is shoving his way in on Father’s other side.

Learmonth’s face is puffed up with anger. ‘What is this disturbance, and so early on a May morn?’ he demands.

Before Father can reply, there’s a cry from high above, a cry as if a boar was shafted. The Provost staggers and Father lets go of Bethia’s arm to steady him, while the crowd falls silent.

Will feels powerful as they chase the soldiers, as if he truly can be a warrior – except his fellows have swords and daggers, while he only has a mason’s hammer. Nevertheless it’s exciting. Shouting and waving the hammer, he’s one of the ring around the soldiers making them strip, although many are only half dressed anyway, having been rudely awoken from their slumbers. When his heart stops thumping and his brain is clear again and he looks at the few naked scrawny soldiers as they drive them out through the gate, it’s not such a triumph after all. He knows they wouldn’t have succeeded, or at least not so easily, if most of the officers hadn’t been from the castle. They round up the servants and workmen next to push them out, although some choose to stay and join their garrison. That feels good; makes what they’re doing seem right.

He’s getting his breath back when young Nydie beckons. He runs over, slowing when he sees James smiling at his eagerness, and adopts a swagger for the last few steps.

‘That wasn’t too difficult, Nydie.’

‘Aye well, now you can come help with something more challenging,’ says James.

He feels a prickle of irritation; Nydie’s only a few years older than him, and considerably smaller. He has no right to patronise. Then he notices the sword twitching in James’s hand and realises James is as scared as he.

James tells how they’ve found the Cardinal, barred in his room. Will strips off the hessian and quickly changes into his clothes, then runs to catch up. He mounts the stairs at the back of the group, behind Nydie’s vivid green jerkin with its gold braiding. In different circumstances he’d be pushing to the front, but he’s more than happy to bring up the coo’s tail today. Ahead John Leslie is hammering on a studded door with ornate iron hinges.

A voice calls from within. ‘Who dares disturb my peace? Begone, before I set the guard upon you.’

Will can hear how shaky the voice is.

Leslie laughs cynically. ‘Go ahead, call the guard. We will await your pleasure.’

He nods to the man behind him and steps to one side. The man has a long heavy mallet and he swings it, hitting the door with an almighty thwack that reverberates down the passageway. There’s a shriek from inside, then the scrape of something heavy being moved; the door shudders. The hammerman swings his mallet once more but without much enthusiasm. It’s obvious to all that he doesn’t have space to wield it to good effect, especially against such a sturdy door.

John Leslie, Peter Carmichael and James Melville draw back. There’s much whispering, then the hammerman and Carmichael leave, pushing past Will as they hurry down the turnpike of steps. They soon return carrying armfuls of straw and wood. It seems the Cardinal is to be imprisoned within a smokehouse, much like the haddock landed from the fishing boats. Will shudders. Nydie hisses that it’s justice for the Cardinal to burn, or it would be if only someone had remembered a means of lighting the fire.

‘You at the back,’ shouts John Leslie.

Everyone turns, including Will, but there’s no one behind him.

‘Yes, you, you glaikit lump,’ Carmichael roars.

He can feel his face flushing.

‘Get to the kitchens and fetch some embers.’

He opens his mouth to complain that he doesn’t know the location of the kitchens, or indeed any room in this great bishop’s palace, but thinks better of it. He runs down the winding stairs so fast he’s dizzy. He can’t think why Peter Carmichael has taken so agin him, roaring at him in front of his fellows? He’s done his part in the taking of the castle. He would have shed blood if it’d been necessary, although he is not entirely confident he could deliberately stab another of God’s creatures.