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

He says Antwerp means to throw a hand and embarks on a long story about a giant’s hand being flung into a river which she fails to follow because she’s distracted by his dark eyelashes; how tightly they curl and how they stroke his cheek as he blinks. She becomes aware that he’s moved on and is now describing how ships have to travel fifty miles up river to reach the city. She stops him, certain she must have misheard.

‘It is true.’ He nods.

‘It must be a very small port.’ She tries to imagine ships being rowed up river, but is only able to picture the sand banks of the Eden estuary, ‘and without tides?’

He laughs. ‘The river, it is very deep and often we have as many as two hundred ships and more than two thousand of carts to bring the goods into the city. They come from the New World with much silver, sugar from the West Indies and from the East they bring spices, and we have the big trade in textiles. It is with the textile my father does the trading.’

His story has her full attention now, for trade is become her area of interest. He tells of the riches passing through his city and the bankers and merchants, come from the exotic lands of Portugal, Spain and Venice, who control them. He describes the art they commission and the books produced by the myriad of printing houses which have sprung up. Soon she feels that her town, of which she is so proud, is a poor place by comparison. However, it is when he talks of education that she truly feels envy, for his sister has been treated little differently to him in her access to learning. Indeed she is at this moment, he assures her, attending a school for girls. She questions him, until he insists they must practise the staff some more although she suspects it is to avoid any further questions about what a girl might learn at school in Antwerp.

They’re soon meeting whenever they can. He continues to pass notes via Grissel and she to reply. Grissel is savouring being part of the secret, but is forever whispering to ask if there’s a message Bethia wants her to take. Indeed so much whispering goes on that Mother, who is determined to find a reason to be rid of Grissel, looks hopeful and demands to know what is afoot. Bethia makes up a story about messages from Will and, since Mother refuses to discuss where Will might be, she lets it go.

Bethia speaks sharply to Grissel, but still she cannot help but smile when yet another note comes from her pilgrim. And so they keep meeting secretly, even though she is ever fearful of being discovered.

Bethia quickly masters the initial strike and soon wants to know more and, within the limitation of skirts which seem designed for the purpose of tripping her up, she learns a few other moves. He encourages her to come at him, saying he needs the practice, although he blocks her with ease.

‘Did your father bring you because you’re good with the staff?’ she asks one day, when they’re catching their breath between bouts.

‘Oh no, Papa is the master with the staff, and sword. He does not need me for protecting. He asked me come for I speak English better, but Father did not understand that the Scots tongue can be so much different from the English one.’

She laughs and, after a quizzical look, he laughs too. ‘But your Scots I am understanding.’

There is a question in his voice. She doesn’t want to tell it’s because Mother, after a childhood spent mostly in England, considers the Scots tongue common and insists she speak the proper way. She shrugs. ‘It is how my mother taught me.’

‘Well, you speak Latin very good too, better than men, even ones going for the university.’

She smiles, pleased by the compliment. ‘My young brother is to enter university here soon and I try to study with him, when I can.’

‘You have a tutor?’

‘John did, and did not like him overmuch for his tutor considered generous use of the rod to be an excellent means of teaching. My father himself is not averse to delivering a whipping, but even he balked at John’s torn flesh, especially when it was not matched by an improvement in his Latin.’

He sniffs. ‘We have all suffered from the tutors, and their beatings. But now you are the teacher?’

She nods and is pleased when he gives a bow of respect.

‘I like to learn, but being a woman…’ Her voice trails away as she remembers how dismissive Father was when Will suggested she might teach John, saying, ‘I know you were forever peering over Will’s shoulder when he was a scholar at St. Salvators, but that does not mean you understand much. A woman’s brain is not made for learning, better you stick to housewifery and needlework.’ Will had snorted and even Father had to laugh then, for her poor needlework is a family jest. Father shrugged his shoulders, and so she was allowed to try and soon nothing further was said about finding John another tutor.

Mainard strokes his curly beard. ‘I know is difficult for you, but we all have the cross we must carry.’

She stares. ‘What difficulties have ever been placed in your path?’

He shuffles his feet, rolling a stone beneath his sandal. ‘You cannot see?’

‘No, you are clearly of a wealthy family, well educated, can wield a staff skilfully and, I would guess, are equally able with the sword. And…,’ she hesitates.

‘And?’ he prompts.

‘You’re the bonniest man I’ve ever seen.’

He gives a bellow of laughter and reaches to take her hand.

‘No, tell me. What is the difficulty in your life that you so sigh about, for I can see none?’

‘I will tell it to you, for a kiss.’

She steps back, but she’s smiling. ‘You are too bold, sir.’

‘A kiss, only small one,’ he says, stepping forward.

‘Fine, you may have your small kiss. Upon my hand.’

He laughs again and she shushes him, fearful they’ll be discovered in their hidden corner. Then he holds out his hand, inviting Bethia to place her hand in it, but she crosses her hands upon her chest. ‘First you tell, then I will judge if you deserve your reward.’

The laughter fades from his face. He opens his mouth and closes it and she wonders what he was going to say. Instead he pulls up the sleeve of his silk doublet and shows his arm, twisting and turning it.

‘You see?’

She has a sense he was going to tell her something important, that he’s distracting her. She looks for a scar.

‘I see an arm.’

‘What is different about the arm?’

She reaches out to touch his skin with her fingertips. ‘It is soft.’

‘Bethia, concentrate. Look at your arm and tell what it is the difference.’

‘The colour, your arm is a pretty colour.’

‘Am I the first you see of this colour?’

‘No, we have Moors living in Scotland, especially at the court. When Mary of Guise came to St Andrews to be wed, she brought Moors in her entourage, and the King disguised himself as a black knight in the tournaments held to celebrate the wedding. And we see pilgrims of many different hues.’

‘It is not easy to be this difference.’

‘There are many challenges in this world; being born a woman is one, but most of all to be poor. Is it really so difficult to be a golden boy?’

‘Sometimes.’

She notices the sun is low in the sky. ‘They’ll wonder where I am, I must go.’

She hurries home, still with the feeling that his colour is not the true difficulty concerning him. He has something he’d rather not tell and it seems to have to do with his father.

When they meet again she probes as to why Master de Lange is on a pilgrimage. He’s a merchant, like her own father, but from Mainard’s description of their home, she knows it’s a much wealthier one. She cannot imagine Father ever undertaking a pilgrimage and is curious why his father has.