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

‘The thorns will likely have torn the skin too,’ says Agnes. ‘I hope it gie’d a good deep rent to the flesh of that wicked varmint.’

The talk at the board is all of the garden and Father’s success in fighting off the thieves until John interrupts telling of Kopernik, a man from Poland who claims the earth moves around the sun. His book, The Commentariolus, has arrived from Antwerp on Father’s ship, and John is much taken by its ideas. She thinks Father should be well pleased, for John’s finally eager to study his Latin by reading Kopernik’s thesis. But Father and John shout at one another until Mother too raises her voice.

‘All this noise and I care not what rotates where, as long as we may have relief from an argument which has a most tedious circularity of its own.’

Bethia watches John gasping like a dying fish at the suggestion that the science is of no moment, while Grissel thumps a trencher in front of him and retreats.

‘Nooo,’ says John and pushes it away.

‘What’s this?’ says Father.

Mother sighs. ‘A potion of ground hedgehog bones for the nocturnal emissions.’

Father stands over him glowering and John, face twisted, takes a sip ‘Well laddie, if you will wet the bed at your age…,’ he says, hurrying out of the room as John retches.

Mother bends to pick up her sewing and Bethia grabs the trencher from John and swaps it with her own.

‘See, it is not so bad once you get used to it,’ says Mother, as John finishes Bethia’s ale.

Bethia winks at John and goes to find Agnes, hoping to arrange the boat trip to the castle, for it has finally stopped raining. Instead she finds Grissel in the yard, her hands deep in a rooster pulling its innards, feathers scattered all around and sticking to her clothes and sweat-soaked face. Grissel says she’ll help find her Uncle Geordie, but it must wait until she’s finished her duties. ‘Or else my mother will leather me.’

Each time she returns, Grissel’s in wilder disarray and redder in the face as she moves from yard to kitchen, keeping the fire embers glowing to spit-roast the fowl.

Elspeth’s at the door but Bethia neither knows nor cares where the painter is when she inquires – probably at his lodgings, for Father refuses to have him board with them, saying a little exposure to the artist goes a long way. ‘But he’ll no doubt return soon, for the portrait is begun,’ she says, assuming Antonio’s absence is what’s causing Elspeth to look dejected.

‘It’s not that. My father says I must marry.’

A shiver runs down Bethia’s spine. ‘But you’re no older than me.’

‘Well take care, no doubt your father has plans for you also.’

‘Do you know who your match is with?’

‘He is speaking to the Wardlaws.’

‘No! Not Fat Norman.’

Elspeth nods.

‘May the Virgin protect you. He was here not long ago – he has a kindly face, but he does smell bad and he is soooo fat.’

‘You give me much comfort.’

She touches Elspeth’s shoulder. ‘I am sorry.’

Elspeth smiles wearily. ‘It doesn’t matter, for I won’t marry him.’ She shakes her head. ‘I won’t. I’d rather a convent.’

‘You wouldn’t!’ Bethia rubs her forehead, ‘I’m not sure I would. Anyway your father has talked of making a match before, has he not, and nothing came of it.’

Elspeth brightens. ‘Yes, and it is unlikely to be successful, for Norman Wardlaw is most wealthy and will look to do better.’

Bethia thinks this is likely true, for it would be a step down for the Wardlaws. Elspeth’s father runs a shop and the family live above it, although she’s the only surviving child and will inherit all. But still her dowry is likely small in comparison to the Wardlaw aspirations.

She hooks her arm through Elspeth’s. ‘Come and see the painter’s allegory of love and peace, which caused so many arguments about how Mother and I were to pose.’

Elspeth chuckles. ‘Did Antonio prevail?’

‘Almost, except Mother refuses to look down fondly upon me. She says it does not display her face to advantage and…’

‘Shows her wrinkles.’

‘Not quite, she says it is not a good position for a woman in her thirties.’

They laugh as they enter the room but Elspeth is quickly absorbed, bending close to study it. ‘Antonio has hid the pox marks on your mother’s face very well. His brushwork is truly masterly.’

Bethia grows bored waiting for the examination to conclude, until John provides a diversion, dancing around the portrait on its stand, pulling faces so horrible that she warns him if the wind changes, his face will stay that way.

‘Where is Master Bellissima anyways,’ he asks, making a grand flourish which mimics the painter so well that both girls burst out laughing. Pleased with himself, John capers more, giving bows until one wild gesture sends the painting, and its easel, flying.

They rush to right it. There’s a shared gasp; the paint is smeared across Mother’s face making her nose, which she’s already sensitive about, look more bulbous.

‘Oh John,’ Bethia says reproachfully.

But John doesn’t care. He knows Father hates the painter and all his pretensions. He doesn’t care that is, until she points out a repair will cost. Then his face grows red at the prospect of another beating and he rubs at Mother’s nose with his sleeve. This is a mistake; the paint smudges further and now Mother’s nose has blurred into her forehead.

Elspeth giggles. It’s a quiet giggle but she knows her friend well. This giggle will become louder and louder until Elspeth is crying with laughter and the whole house and half the street will hear, and become curious. She hustles them both out of the room and down the stairs.

‘Go to your studies, John,’ she says. For once, he doesn’t argue .

She chases Elspeth out into the street, tugging her down the close at the side of the house. Elspeth is breathless from running and laughing, and bends over double, resting one hand against the wall of the house to steady herself.

Grissel appears, having finally finished her work. It is evening now, the long Scottish summer’s evening, and bright as though it were midday. Now they can search for Geordie.

Grissel, although younger than Bethia, is a strapping lass. She walks behind the girls, as is proper for a servant. Bethia knows they may not look it, but together they’re a formidable trio; especially Elspeth, who is smaller even than her, but can be fierce when roused. She smiles, remembering, when they were children how Elspeth once split a teasing boy’s lip with a well-aimed punch.

The gulls are hanging noisily over the midden heaps: swooping and diving; tearing, snatching; fighting and screaming. The catches have been good so far this year, the stench of rotting fish pervades the town and the girls bat the flies away as they hurry past.

Uncle Geordie is not to be found outside his house with his neighbours, fixing nets and baiting the lines ready for the morn’s morn. Instead they’re directed to an alehouse by the harbour. Bethia’s nervous; this alehouse sits between the sailor’s hostel and the whorehouse and she doesn’t know which of the three is worse.

She sends Grissel into the alehouse alone; it’s her uncle after all. She and Elspeth stand close, gazing out over the water while they wait. The harbour is busy with ships, as is usual at this time of year. Grissel ducks under the doorway and re-emerges, blinking in the evening sunshine. A gust of wind blows her hair free and Bethia realises Grissel is pretty in a big bold Norse woman way, like the Valkyries she was reading of only this morning. She wishes she was back in the safety of the chamber at the top of the house, out of the wind and reading a book.