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

‘How is it that this whole escapade is about faith, and yet your fellows are running wild in our town? Our town, Will!’

All the fight goes from him and his shoulders droop. ‘I do not leave the castle, I do not condone their actions.’

She notices how his wrists dangle from the too-short sleeves of his jerkin. He may be tall, but he’s not yet come to manhood and, despite his broadening shoulders and beard growth, he can still sound like a lost boy.

‘I know you would never attack the defenceless, but you belong to a group who do.’ She reaches out and touches his arm.

‘Enough.’ He hits her hand away, and takes a deep breath, as though to calm himself. ‘Come, you will see why Arran, for all that he’s Regent of Scotland and must get us out, will tread cannily, very cannily.’

He leads her back to the portico. The rain has stopped, but the sun is obscured by cloud. She hopes the boat is waiting for her still.

They climb a turnpike, up and up, and come out in the gallery above the great hall. There are musical instruments lying here, which the Cardinal’s minstrels must have left behind when they were expelled from the castle: a trumpet, viola and tabor. Will is tugging on her arm to come look over the edge of the gallery, but her eyes are drawn to an instrument tucked in the corner. It is a harp – she’s never seen one before – and of such beauty it takes her breath away: the metal work of silver, the wood carved and painted with vermilion, a costly pigment; she well knows the price from father’s accounting books. Somehow this harp brings home to her that the Cardinal truly did live better than any man in Scotland: the bed, the furnishings, the clothes and the food could be explained as a man who likes to have the best but they were at least necessary items. The harp is an indulgence, no doubt paid for by church tithes, tithes which should have gone to the poor. She thinks of the children she passed on the way to the harbour, huddled in corners and sleeping in their rags. It’s such a familiar sight she barely notices, but shame upon Cardinal Beaton that he did so little to help the beggars living in the shadow of his great palace.

‘Bethia,’ hisses Will, beckoning.

She slips over to join him and peeps between the banisters. She doesn’t know what she’s looking at – is it the tapestries hanging from the great walls, the long oak boards with benches down one side, the rugs upon the flagstones and the fire dwarfed by the huge fireplace within which it burns? She feels sick with all this richness now, like when she over-indulges on Agnes’s marchpane.

He nudges her and points to the four boys sitting by the fire, who she judges to be no older than John. She looks curiously at him.

‘See the one on the right, closest to the heat of the fire.’

She sees the boy is more finely dressed than the others, the colours purer, the ruching, the embroidery all pointing to the son of a wealthy man. Perhaps he is one of Beaton’s children.

‘He’s Arran’s son. Can you believe our luck, the Regent’s son is here. We have him as a hostage!’

Will’s voice has risen as he speaks. The boy flinches and turns to look up at the gallery. He’s a comely lad; a comely lad with fear in his eyes.

‘I must go,’ she says.

Bethia’s so wet she may as well have fallen in the harbour, except it’s as well that she did not, since she cannot swim. The rain grows heavier as they row away from the castle. Geordie picks up a bowl lying in the bottom of the boat and passes it to her. Her clothes cling to her hampering movement as she scoops as fast as she can, but the boat fills up faster. She’s profoundly grateful when they reach the safety of land.

Mother’s annoyed when she returns home dripping. Fortunately she’s too preoccupied by the damage to Bethia’s cap and the dye running off the gown, staining both Bethia and the floor, to ask where she’s been.

‘This is a new gown, a new gown which will be faded as an old rag now. Foolish girl!’ She waves her hands chasing Bethia off to change.

Dry and garbed in her old gown, which is too short and skimming her ankles now she’s full-grown, she finds Father staring at his books. She sits on the stool next to him. ‘Can I help?’

He stares at her. ‘Do you have aught to say to me, lass?’

She flushes, gazing at her hands.

‘If you know anything of Will’s whereabouts, please tell me.’

She looks him full in the face. Father doesn’t ask, only commands. His gentleness is her undoing.

‘He is in the castle.’ She sighs. ‘And he will not come out.’

Father slides his legs out from under the board and stands up, his face darkening with rage and something else, which she realises is an anguish of fear. ‘This can never end well.’

‘Will seems confident it may.’

‘You’ve spoken with him?’

She nods. ‘They have Regent Arran’s son hostage. Will says that they can barter with Arran, that he’ll not risk any harm to his son, and so cannot easily re-take the castle.’

‘This has the sound of arrogant nonsense,’

‘The son is there, he and some other boys, also the sons of noblemen, who were in the Cardinal’s care for their studies. I saw them with my own eyes.’

Father sits down again, tapping his fingers on the board. ‘If Will and they other conspirators think the Regent can sit on his hands and do nothing, they’re fools. He must take action.’

She leans forward, ‘But then why has he not come?’

‘Provost Learmonth tells that Arran’s trying to break the siege at Dumbarton Castle and will not turn his attention eastward till it’s done.’

‘Not even to rescue his own son?’

Father drums his fingers louder – she wishes he would stop. ‘’Tis more important to Arran to secure any advantage from Cardinal Beaton’s death first. He’ll be thinking of how he may benefit,’ he pauses, ‘as any wise man should for his family’s sake. But make no mistake, he’ll not leave the lairds strutting around the castle, and the town, for long.’

‘How can it be to the Regent’s advantage to have the Cardinal dead? I thought they were working together to keep Scotland safe?’

‘Only when it suited them, but they were aye fighting for control. Arran had Beaton locked up in Blackness castle not two years ago. Beaton wanted to be Regent and Arran wanted the chancellery and the rich livings which were under Beaton’s control. Now Regent Arran will be power broking to make sure his family and supporters get what was once the Cardinal’s.’

He tugs his beard. ‘The Church has vast revenues, greater than the Crown commands in many regions.’ He gives a bark of laughter. ‘I heard tell that King James thought to follow the path of his Uncle Henry and take all for himself, but the Pope suddenly granted him 50,000 gold crowns from church rents, claiming his motives to be entirely patriotic.’

‘Why did King James not take the Church’s all anyway, like the English king has?’

‘Ach well, who knows. James may have feared for his immortal soul but with his wife a powerful French woman, and all they grants coming from France, he was unlikely to be turned from the true word – which was a wise choice now he’s dead and can easily enter the kingdom of heaven.’

There’s nothing more said, nothing more to say. Father sits down again and passes Bethia some notes on the usual grubby scraps of paper for her to record in the Day Book. “Item” she writes in her careful copperplate, and lists the transactions he’s made including a supply of onion seed come from England, three cran of herring and, like the Cardinal, barrels of eel from Loch Leven.