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

She’s sent to fetch them some of the claret that Father brought, in a recent shipment.

‘The captain says the crossing of the Bay of Biscay was terrible,’ Father tells the Wardlaws as she sets off on her errand, ‘worse than ever he can remember, and in August, when all should be easy.’

When she returns with the silver salver bearing decanter and glasses, one of Mother’s few dowry items, they fall silent. She has a feeling they’ve been talking about her. Everyone watches as she concentrates on reaching the board, the contents of her tray wobbling. She senses Father relaxing as she places the tray down and serves their drinks. They leave soon after, Walter Wardlaw staring at her as he goes. He makes her feel unclean and she doesn’t know why he’s staring anyway, since he already has a wife: a poor trauchled creature.

The painter is still busy about his work with Elspeth ever his devoted assistant, although Mother has already lost interest in her ceiling after Lady Merione pronounced it a good effort . Father however is pleased with the progress of the portrait, which thankfully Antonio managed to repair discretely, meriting John’s respect.

Elspeth’s come to have Bethia pluck her hair line, giving a raised brow like that of the Dowager Queen, ladies of the nobility and, of course, Mother too. Antonio insisted Bethia had her’s plucked high for the mother and daughter portrait, and her eyebrows taken off. After the deed was done, she stared into the polished hand mirror Father once brought her as a gift from France, and a calm, assured lady gazed back. She assumes Elspeth has hopes that something may come of her time with the painter since she’s enduring the tweezers again, but Elspeth says he’s rushing the work now and will soon be finished.

‘Why is he rushing, does he have another commission elsewhere?’

‘No, he says St Andrews is no longer safe and ’tis better to leave while he can easily find a ship.’ A tear runs down her cheek. ‘It seems I am nothing to him.’

‘Ach, things are not so bad and the siege must soon be over now Arran is come. Tell him not to worry, and Father is pleased and will no doubt recommend him.’

Elspeth wipes away the tears and sits up, while Bethia wields the tweezers. She frowns as she works, thinking, what did Elspeth expect? There could never be a future for her with the painter as he wanders the world following commissions, and he is used to, indeed needs to, charm women, with his snapping black eyes, sweet words and courtly manners. He couldn’t take a wife and she doubts he would ever make a reliable husband or be a good provider. Now the bonny pilgrim – he’s a different matter, and Bethia leaves Elspeth to her misery as her imagination wanders around the young man from Flanders. Father seems to have forgot all about him in his anxiety over Will and, as soon as the plucking is done to Elspeth’s satisfaction, she plans to slip out and find him.

But Mother calls before Bethia can leave the house in search of Mainard, wanting her to sort yarn.

‘You spend altogether too much time with your Father, and I need you to assist me – and on more maidenly tasks,’ she says.

Bethia sits hunched over the tangled basket of wools, stifling a yawn, next to John, who’s swinging his legs in boredom, his Latin primer spread before him. All is quiet and she wonders how much longer she’ll have to sit here playing the dutiful daughter before she’s released.

There’s a knock on the front door below and she quickly rises.

‘Sit down,’ says Mother. ‘Grissel will answer.’

She huffs and drops back onto the stool.

‘I heard that,’ says Mother.

The knocking is renewed, more insistently. She’s poised to go when they hear the door screeching open and Grissel’s loud voice.

‘Give us a moment, why can’t ye.’

Mother sighs.

There’s a murmur of voices, which Bethia strains to hear, and then the sound of more than one set of footsteps climbing the stairs. The door is flung wide by Grissel, behind her is Mainard, and following him the equally tall figure of Mainard’s father. She drops the hank of yarn and covers her mouth.

Mother rises to greet them. ‘You wish to see my husband, on business perhaps,’ she says, then sharply to Grissel, ‘fetch the master and bring us some malmsey.’

Grissel bangs out of the room, without a curtsy and Mother’s lips grow thin.

Mainard smiles at Bethia and she hangs her head in embarrassment.

Both Mainard and his father make a courtly leg and bow low. Mother holds out her hand and first Master de Lange, and then Mainard, kisses it.

‘Do take a seat,’ says Mother, looking well pleased; handsome men are a rarity. Mainard’s father begins to speak, but the door opens, and Father strides in. The de Langes stand up and Father stares at them from under bushy eyebrows.

Bethia shifts in her seat. ‘Father, this is Master de Lange and his son, pilgrims come to St Andrews. Mainard helped me when I was troubled by Castilians.’

‘I know who they are. Do ye think I don’t keep an eye upon the doings of my own daughter?’

Mainard whispers a translation to his father.

‘As well you should,’ says Master de Lange smoothly, making a bow.

Father nods and bows back, and they all sit down once more. They converse mostly in Latin with some Dutch, for Father has knowledge of both. It seems Master de Lange wants to discuss a trading partnership, and soon Father leads him to his room of business, while Mainard stays to charm Mother. Bethia doesn’t know what to make of it, but Father is well pleased when he returns, and they leave amidst more courtly bowing.

‘This could be a suitable connection,’ he says rubbing his hands together. ‘Very suitable, we need contacts in the Low Countries. And although they are of the brownish hue, a touch of the blackamoor there I think, the son may well do, if our partnership prospers. We’ll give it a little more time, for it may be a better choice for you than the Wardlaws.’

He stares at Bethia and she blushes rosy pink and drops her gaze. She wonders what Master de Lange has been saying, and hopes Father doesn’t mean what she thinks about a “better choice than the Wardlaws”. And anyway, Fat Norman is seeking a match with Elspeth and Walter Wardlaw already has a wife.

The next day Bethia wakes early. She lies half asleep, puzzled by what has awoken her. There it is again – the rattle of a pebble hitting the shutter. Slipping out of bed she tucks the curtains tight around so’s not to disturb mother, before opening the casement and peering out. Below, in the grey light, face turned up and wrapped in his cloak is Mainard. He gestures at her to come down. She waves understanding, pulls on her skirt and wraps her shawl around her.

The front door, wood swollen by last night’s heavy rain, sticks and she struggles to tug it open until he lends his weight on the other side. Stepping outside she takes his hand and leads him down the close and into the shelter of the byre. Anyone who’s abroad so early will be hurrying for cover before it rains again, but it’s better to be discrete, and dry.

Inside the beasts exude calm, but her breathing stays rapid and she cannot seem to make it slow to match their steady rhythm.

‘How did you know that was my window?’

‘Grissel told me, many days ago.’

Bethia shakes her head; Grissel and her love of intrigue.

‘I am sorry, my Bethia, but we are departing. Father receive an urgent message from a ship newly come and we go now.’

He looks down into her eyes and she waits for him to say more. After what feels like a long silence she asks, ‘Will you come back, ever?’ in a small voice.