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

She knows he’s trying to distract her but she’s curious. ‘You’ve spoken with him?’

‘Of course. He’s given us his surety he’ll not try to escape, so we let him roam freely within the castle.’

‘It’s as well you have his bond, for his father is finally come and there are plans afoot.’

‘I am sure there are.’ He takes her by the arm as they walk, ‘what can you tell me about the Regent’s preparations; how does he plan to break the siege?’

She hesitates, one foot on the stairs, not sure she wants Will to know how little activity there has been so far. She runs down the turnpike to give herself time to form a reply.

‘This way,’ he points. The corridor is lined with fine paintings and she wants to stop and look, but Will has her by the arm again and is waiting for an answer.

‘Troops are arriving all the time and he has huge cannon – but I am not in the Regent’s confidence.’

This is a slight exaggeration, some troops have come, though Father says there is much havering amongst the Regent’s supporters and little action, but she won’t tell Will that. He’ll never leave if he knows how chaotic the siege-breakers are; and how reluctant.

He screws up his face. ‘You’re only a girl, what would you know anyway.’

She glares at him. They’re outside a heavy oak door, the wood badly scorched along its base. He knocks and enters. The boy sitting by the fire rises and smiles when he sees who it is.

‘My Lord, this is my sister, Mistress Bethia.’

She smiles in response and makes her curtsey, and the young lord bows in return. There is a weary sadness about him, and she wants to give him a hug – just as she would if he were John.

‘Is that a chess set I see?’ she asks, nodding to the board.

‘Aye, do you play?’

‘Yes I do. I often beat my youngest brother.’

Young Arran grins. ‘Unfortunately it’s not a game this brother loves.’

‘No, he’s more the man of action.’ She can see, out of the corner of her eye, that Will has puffed his chest out. At least she’s said one thing today to please him.

‘Play with me, my lady, if you will.’

He looks at her, appealing from under his fair brows and, even though she wants to get home, she agrees. It may be better anyway to wait and leave under cover of darkness, there will be less chance of being seen – although greater chance of being attacked.

‘I will be happy to oblige you.’

‘There’s a chess game in the gardens,’ he says as he pulls up stools to the small table where the board sits. ‘We used it regularly. It was fun to play with giant pieces. But I cannot go there now.’

‘Oh yes, I noticed it the other day, while I was waiting…’ She glances at Will, but he’s suddenly absorbed in studying the arras tapestry of unicorns and knights.

‘Are you really expecting England to send supplies?’ she asks later as Will walks her along a passageway, lit only by the fading dusk.

He rubs his head. ‘So we have been told.’

‘You think that wily old king, who’s beheaded two wives and disposed of two more that he judged unsatisfactory, cares whether you starve?’

‘You don’t know anything about it.’

She shakes her head. ‘He wants something, doesn’t he? What do you have to give him in return?’

‘We haven’t got anything he’d want,’ says Will tugging on his beard.

‘It’s that laddie.’ She knows from the way he won’t meet her eyes that she’s right. ‘He wants you to give him that innocent wee laddie who’s trapped here only because he’s Regent Arran’s son.’

‘He’s no so young as he looks, and no so innocent either. He’s next in line to the throne, after all.‘

‘That’s not his fault. He is an innocent. How can he help the frailty of infants should Queen Mary die, and that he is his father’s son?’

‘The sins of the father,’ says Will.

She restrains herself from whacking his arm. ‘Get me out of here. I’m ashamed to call you brother.’

They are half-walking, half-running towards the garden gate when she remembers. ‘Young Arran isn’t second in line to the throne, not anymore.’

‘What are you blethering about, of course he is – the Regent Arran is next in line and then James, as his eldest son.’

‘You haven’t heard.’

‘I’m shut up in this mouldering castle, how would I hear anything? I’m almost as much a prisoner as James Hamilton.’

‘At least you’re free to leave.’

‘Aye, right.’ Will stops and takes a deep breath. ‘There must always be sacrifices for a true cause. I will never leave my fellows.’

He evidently thinks he’s in some Chaucer’s tale of brave knights. ‘So you’ve mentioned, several times,’ she says, her voice dry as well-seasoned hay.

‘What’s the information you have about the Regent’s son?’ he demands.

Now they are by a narrow gate, leading to the castle gardens, but the stout iron yett is closed. Next to it a young man stands guard, long pike in hand.

‘Oh, you do have some guards,’ she says.

‘Don’t be so daft, of course we do.’

‘I thought everyone here was too important to take a turn at the common work.’

She can see he’s ready to shake her, if they didn’t have a witness. She doesn’t know why she keeps provoking him, it won’t achieve anything except his further estrangement, but she can’t seem to stop herself.

She grabs his sleeve. ‘Arran’s son is no longer second in line to the throne.’

‘Stop it.’ He shakes her hand off.

‘It’s true, he’s been excluded.’

‘No, how can that be? You’re telling lies to get me to leave.’ Will folds his arms.

‘For as long as he’s imprisoned here, young Arran is excluded from the succession. He’s not the great chess piece to play after all. And Norman Leslie must know this – he’s not being so loyal!’

She can see doubt, and then the realisation she speaks true, race across his face.

‘He’s still Arran’s son, and King Henry will want him for that reason alone.’

‘You think.’ She tosses her head.

‘Let her out,’ he shouts to the guard and stalks away.

The man looks flummoxed. ‘But, but…,’ he calls to Will’s retreating back, ‘…I dinna hold the key.’

Father looks grave when Bethia describes the state of the castle, and the state of Will. Indeed, so concerned is he, that he doesn’t scold her for disobeying him. He paces up and down as she talks of Will’s unswerving belief in the rightness of his actions, his intransigence and the poor wee hostage James Hamilton.

‘This is bad, very bad,’ he mutters.

He stops and stares at her under lowered brows, his sharp nose like a mouse peeping out from the wainscotting. Then he resumes his pacing.

‘We need to do something and fast, otherwise it’ll be too late.’

‘Too late for what, Father?’

‘Never you mind lass, never you mind. We’ll have something sorted quick before word leaks out about Will’s whereabouts. I must see Walter Wardlaw.’ He flies out of the room calling for Grissel or Agnes or some bugger to bring his bonnet and cloak, and fast.

She’s carefully writing out a contract ready for the notary to affix his mark to, when Father returns, slumping into the chair. She glances up, but he won’t meet her eyes and she wonders what he has done to look so guilty about.

The next day the beadle comes to visit again, with his fat brother in tow. He’s telling how Regent Arran is demanding money from the monasteries to pay for the siege.

‘Aye it’s good to know that they rich friars must give up their siller, to the tune of six thousand pounds to recover the castle.’ Father chortles long and loud, until he remembers his heir is inside.