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

Father mutters to himself as she carefully forms her letters. He rises abruptly. ‘I will speak with Walter Wardlaw. He’ll know what the Regent is planning, assuming the Provost is sharing the information with his own assistant, and also assuming I can get through the streets without being stopped at every turn by our townsfolk milking me for news. I swear no work’s been done since the castle was took, for all any bugger wants to do is stand on the corner guessing what’ll happen next.’

He goes to leave, but comes back moments later dressed in his cap, short cloak and boots, laying a heavy hand upon her shoulder. ‘You did well this day, but you will not go into the castle again. You will obey me in this, Bethia.’

She twist her head to look up at him and nods. ‘Yes, Father.’

‘And you must tell no one, No One, where Will is. He’s stayed out of sight thus far, so he’s no entirely without sense. Perhaps we may still get him safely home.’

She frowns.

‘What is it?’

‘Isn’t there some support in the town for The Castilians , as they’re styling themselves?’

He snorts.

‘Might it be to our advantage to have it known Will is among them?’

‘It is a consideration but I fear any support will be short-lived, especially if they continue to strut around the town as though they’re our masters – and there’s tales of them attacking women. No, better he stays hid.’

He gazes out the window, then pats her head. ‘You’re a guid lass.’

Tears come to her eyes to be so praised.

Father arrives home huffing and puffing. He says there’s a proclamation come from the Parliament in Stirling, which has been posted at the Mercat Cross in Cupar, and is now to be delivered to they brutes within the castle. He refuses to call them by the name they’ve adopted – Castilians – for he says they’re not worthy of such grandiosity. Bethia wonders if he’s considered, in calling them brutes, that he’s including his own son.

Provost Learmonth, ever to the fore, has determined he will read the proclamation aloud so all may know its content, and Bethia plans to sneak to the castle to listen. Father raises his bushy eyebrows and looks at her as though he’s divined her thoughts.

‘You winna go,’ he says….‘Unless it is with me.’

She hugs his arm and breathes in his familiar smell: wool, leather and sweat.

He looks pleased by this rare gesture of daughterly affection. ‘Well now,’ he says, ‘enough of this.’

They go together and stand in the sunshine before the castle. The sea is a dazzling blue, but the wind whipping off it is chilly against the skin for June, and she wishes she’d worn her warm cloak. A small troop of soldiers march up in formation and the Castilians hang over the parapet jeering, upsetting the pigeons in the doocot in the roof of one of the towers. Father explained, when once she wondered why the Cardinal would want the stink of pigeons above him, that it can be useful in a siege to have fresh meat and eggs available. No doubt the garrison will now find it so, especially in view of the proclamation that Learmonth reads loudly to both them, and the townsfolk who’ve been commanded to gather and listen.

None are to sell, or gift, the garrison supplies of any kind under pain of forfeiture of their property and imprisonment. Furthermore Norman Leslie and his fellow lairds must come to Edinburgh and plead their case before the Crown within the next sixteen days. It is handed in at the castle gate, and a notice forbidding the sale, or gift, of any supplies is pinned to the Mercat Cross.

The soldiers march away, leaving her confused; one moment the castle’s guarded, the next it’s not. Father says Provost Learmonth is keeping a foot in both camps – his own sister is married to William Kirkcaldy of Grange who, along with most of the Grange extended family, is holed up in the castle. Learmonth will want the appearance of being on the side of the Queen’s troops and Regent Arran, but who knows where his sympathies truly lie. Indeed, at one time, he was promoting the marriage of Prince Edward and the wee Queen Mary, but then so was Regent Arran. Father says it may be sensible for the Provost to operate this way, but it’s not in the interests of the town, although Learmonth considers his interests and the town’s to be indivisible.

A week later and Learmonth’s assistant, Walter Wardlaw, comes to speak with Father, bringing his brother Fat Norman. Wardlaw stands although he’s been invited to sit, legs splayed for all as if he’s Henry the Eighth in the etching of the Holbein portrait which a pedlar recently showed to Mother. In a rare moment of unity, she and Mother had laughed at the pose but there’s no doubt the English King is impressive – much as, in a lesser way, the beadle is. He assesses her, tongue flicking over fleshy lips, and she looks away.

His brother Fat Norman is a different matter, though he takes up more space than King Henry and the beadle joined together. He’s chosen to sit on the settle rather than the proffered chair, no doubt for fear of getting stuck, and is gazing down at his hands. She heard tell he’s on the prowl for a new wife after the previous one died of the pox. Whoever ends up with him had best ride astride, or else be crushed to death. He glances up at her and flushes when he sees her eyes upon him, and she blushes too, – at the impropriety of her thoughts.

Father sends her to fetch victuals and she forgets about Norman Wardlaw as she walks slowly from the room, listening to what’s said. All is doom, for the lairds have refused to go to Edinburgh and plead their case. Furthermore, the proclamation on the sale of supplies is without teeth as the garrison still come and go freely. When she returns the provost’s beadle is sitting in the proffered chair telling Father that the town must mount a stronger guard to keep the garrison inside the castle.

‘And I thought what we wanted was to get them out,’ Father says, grinning at his own wit.

Wardlaw huffs. ‘It is a serious matter. We canna leave them to come and go any longer. Arran will be here soon, for word has it that he’s close to kicking Henry Tudor’s lackey, Lennox, out of Dumbarton Castle.’

‘About time.’

‘Aye, and we don’t want Arran to arrive in St Andrews and find the town has done not a thing about the castle, and his own son held hostage within.’

Father nods. ‘That makes sense.’

‘Where is yon son of yours? He’d be a right one to help lead a troop of townsfolk?’ Wardlaw leans forward and stares intently at Father.

Bethia’s pouring the malmsey carefully into the best pewter cups and her hand shakes so much she spills some on the board.

‘Take care,’ growls Father, but she can see he’s glad of the diversion.

‘Will is frae home,’ he says, ‘gone to my sister Jennet’s in Edinburgh.’

She gulps, she can feel the sweat running down her back even though there’s no fire lit in the grate.

‘In Edinburgh? Why so far when he’s wanted?’

Father shrugs, ‘I need him to learn his trade, none better than Jennet and her husband to teach him.’

She’s surprised to hear such praise heaped upon her aunt and uncle; it’s not how Father normally speaks of them.

‘If we’re to form a troop, then the town council must make a tax. All the burghers must contribute.’

Father grows red-faced. ‘It’s no time since I paid a tax for the planting of trees and now you’re asking for more siller. I’m no giving it.’

They argue back and forth while Bethia lingers in the background. She catches Fat Norman’s eye and he smiles at her, then, hunching his shoulders, he returns to gazing at his hands. She’s thinking about how peculiarly sweet Norman’s smile is, when she becomes aware that Walter Wardlaw is watching her while Father is talking; indeed he is stroking around his codpiece, while he stares. He’s revolting, she thinks, and he should consider that wearing such a large codpiece looks ridiculous. He sees her watching and smirks but she looks away, head held high.