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

‘I truly want to learn.’

‘Oh,’ he pauses. ‘Tomorrow I return to see you fine ladies.’ He bows again, his eyes sweeping over them all. Grissel giggles behind her hand with pleasure to be so included. ‘Took no hurt from the adventure. We may discuss then.’

She gives a little wave. Elspeth nudges Grissel, and Bethia sweeps past them both into the house, shutting the door behind her – although she can hear the hoots of laughter from the other side.

Bethia is at the castle gardens before the first bell next morning. The castle walls rise high above to her right, but it is the stable block and no windows overlook the gardens. She walks up and down the paths, under the watery sun and dull sky. Cardinal Beaton once strolled here, perhaps communing with God but, if what Father says is true, most likely with a head full of machinations. He was a man hard pressed by foes; no wonder though, with such rich livings to keep a hold upon.

The woody smell of sage is strong as she brushes past the clump of plants edging a bed filled with tall spires of larkspur. She’s tempted to gather the seed, for no one seems to be caring much for the beds which are weed-choked; the Cardinal’s gardeners no doubt fled, along with the rest of his servants. In the next bed is a planting of many roses. She’s never seen such beautiful roses and in such a profusion of pinks, reds and even orange. Catching the sides of her apron she ties a knot, forms a deep pocket and gathers the fallen petals to scent her linens.

She draws nearer to the castle walls and can hear the rising clamour as the garrison begin their day, but Will does not come. Perhaps he has no one to wake him from his slumbers. Hearing voices close by she drops down, crouching low to the ground and hiding behind the plants. The rose bushes catch her skirt, sleeve, cap and even the hair under it, but she doesn’t dare move. The voices draw nearer and then recede.

She cannot linger, it seems that Will either hasn’t got her message or has chosen not to come. She’s upset that he might leave his own sister waiting, unprotected. She disentangles herself with difficulty; the roses seem to be controlled by some witchery to hold her here. Then hurries away, dropping a trail of rose petals behind her.

When she reaches home Father is out but has left a note with instructions for her to copy some documents. Head bent and tongue between her teeth, she is forming the letters when a knock comes at the door. Distracted, she lifts her head, a blob of ink dripping onto the copy book. She lays down her quill and rises shaking out her skirts and smoothing her hair.

Grissel’s grinning face appears around the door. ‘’Tis yer bonny man.’

‘Thank you, Grissel,’ she says, folding her hands over her stomach.

Grissel giggles.

‘Please call Mother,’

‘Och, yer mother’s from home,’ says Grissel holding the door wide.

‘Fetch us some malmsey.’

Grissel disappears down the hallway and Bethia runs up the stairs, pausing before the closed door to catch her breath.

He’s standing by the window, his brown skin dazzling in the shafts of sunlight and his long curls a dark halo around his head. He turns and a slow smile spreads across his face, as though he can read her thoughts. She dips her head and blushes, holding out her hand, which he bows over, her skin tingling at his touch. There’s a pause as they stand back from one another. She can’t think what to say and he, for all his tall presence, seems equally tongue-tied.

‘Where are you…’

‘I trust you are…’

They laugh and draw together, jumping when the door bangs wide and Grissel crashes in, closely followed by a watchful Agnes. The madeira is served and they sit down. Grissel leaves the room but Agnes stays, first fiddling with the decanter on the board, and then loitering by the window. She doesn’t speak, she is after all a servant, but Bethia wishes she would: either that or leave. She can feel the sweat pooling in her cleavage and under her arms, as she tries to think of something to say. She manages a few questions and learns that Mainard de Lange is staying at the Hospitum at St Leonards.

‘You are nearby,’ she comments, while Agnes’s forehead wrinkles at the news. Soon the pilgrim rises to leave and she cannot blame him. Her heart sinks as he says his farewells; she’s unlikely to see him again, except by chance – but he, she soon discovers, has other ideas.

She’s working with Father the next day when Grissel sidles into the room. Glancing up, she finds Grissel making big eyes, twitching her head and generally behaving oddly. She lays down the quill and stares. Unfortunately Father also chooses that moment to look up, and gaze at Grissel’s antics.

‘God’s bones lassie, what are ye about?’

Grissel’s struck dumb, but only briefly.

‘The mistress,’ she rolls her eyes as though for inspiration, ‘aye, that’s right, the mistress wants Bethia.’

‘Can it no wait? We’re busy here.’

‘No, no. The mistress says now.’

She follows Grissel out and soon returns. She has a note from Mainard de Lange tucked away safely in her apron pocket, and has given Grissel a flea in her ear about her lack of discretion.

There is a quiet corner behind St Leonards by the cathedral wall where no one goes, except perhaps to hide from prying eyes. It’s unwise and could seriously affect her marriage prospects if it were ever known, but she goes anyway, arguing to herself that Mainard de Lange is clearly well born. It is evident from his clothes and address that he’s an educated young man from a wealthy family, and somehow that makes their secret meeting seem not so wrong.

At first she’s shy in his presence for he engenders strange and unfamiliar sensations in her. Fortunately he’s less tongue-tied away from Agnes’s eagle-eyed presence. He can speak French, although his command of English is reasonable and his Latin excellent: another sign of his pedigree. She can speak some French and they chat flowing freely between Latin, English and French. He has come prepared for activity; producing a short stave which he hands to her.

‘For practice,’ he says, ‘if you want the learning still.’

She strokes the staff. It’s newly made and finely sanded, smooth to the touch and fits well to the palm of her hand. She’s pleased that he’s taken her request seriously.

‘My one is too long for you,’ Mainard says, ‘so the wood-turner, I ask him make you a special one.’

‘Thank you.’ She can feel herself flushing, and it’s not only her face, but all around her body.

‘The skirts, they a difficulty, but my sister can use the staff, for I show her. You need let the attacker come close, and to a woman he will come very close. Give one hard hit to cause great pain, then…’ he opens his hands wide and shrugs his shoulders, ‘the fight it is over.’

First he shows her the grip, moving her hand further down the staff and tugging her thumb out from under her fingers. Her face grows hotter. She’s sure it would burn to the touch.

‘I see you do much writing,’ he says, touching the ink stains on her middle finger.

She rubs at them with her thumb. ‘I make notes for my Father, he is a merchant.’

‘Ah, like my father. It is good you learn the family business. But come, let us begin.’

It’s awkward, she doesn’t think she can do it, wished she’d never asked him… but as he shows her how to move, she forgets herself and concentrates on learning.

‘You let it flow, not fight with it.’

‘It’s fighting with me, the way it keeps catching in my skirt.’

He laughs.

They pause for a rest, while she ties back her hair which has come loose, and she asks about his home. He talks of Antwerp and, although she has heard some of what he has to tell, for Father has been there, she listens without interrupting, enjoying the attention he bestows upon her, while resisting the temptation to reach out and touch his skin.