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

‘I promise, I will return. But it is, how shall we say, complicated.’

Again she waits, light-headed with anticipation.

‘I do not have long, Papa is waiting, and it is not quick to make the explanation.’

‘’Tis a pity you did not give it sooner, then.’

He blinks, but continues. ‘You remember I tell there are merchants from Spain and Portugal living in my city?’

She nods, wondering why he is repeating himself if they have so little time.

‘My family come from Spain, and long ago from a country further south.’

She nods rapidly. Does he truly want to spend their last moments together giving a family history?

‘My grandparents, they were Jews and convert to Christianity but still it was not so safe for us in Spain. Then they come to Antwerp where many different peoples reside all together. It was good decision and the family businesses do very well, but our difference is clear to all.’ He pauses and taps the skin on his left hand. ‘And now, with the talk of reforming, life is difficult again. You understand?’

‘No, not really.’ She shifts her weight from one foot to the other. The cows too, heavy with milk, begin to shift restlessly in their stalls. Their calves, in a separate pen, call plaintively, but they must wait until Grissel’s done the milking and taken the family’s share.

He screws up his eyes and his forehead wrinkles. ‘There is group of Jews live in Antwerp. They get angry because we convert.’ He sighs. ‘Even though was long time ago. We can be citizens and trade freely, and the Jews cannot. We are good Catholics, yet it is always difficult to be accepted. Many of the Catholic peoples we do business with, they do not like it because once we were Jews. Now some are no longer sure they are good Catholics, and want the church reform. We do not want more change, we only want to do our work and live the peaceful lives.’

She wonders why he’s telling her all this. A jolt runs through her, perhaps he does mean to ask for her hand; he’d better be quick if he’s to get Father’s permission before he leaves. She can’t stop herself from shaking. He’s telling her this because he wants her to understand what she will be going to. She doesn’t care, she’d follow him anywhere.

‘Papa was much troubled and one night he is stopped by men coming from a hostelry who are angry. He did not want to speak with them and they attack. I tell to you before, he can use the staff better than I, and he defend himself from the attack. One man fall and hit his head hard, and he dies. Papa is called the murderer but in the end his sentence is commuted, thanks be to his true friends and our good Lord. Instead he must pay the man’s family much money and do the pilgrimage.’ He bites his lips. ‘Now you know all.’

She looks up into his eyes, but doesn’t know what to say.

‘I know what I tell is bad. I should tell you before, but our time together was a happy one and…,’ he spreads his arms wide.

She nods in understanding and he, taking it as a sign, reaches for her hand. She allows it but all she can think is, his father is a murderer, and she knows, even if she can overlook it, her own father may not.

He gives her hand a shake to get her attention again. ‘I cannot wait Bethia. I am sorry, I thought we have more time. Papa has news from home – there are attacks. He say we will go now quickly for we must protect our family and property. There are people who say my father must be punished more and they will take this time of disturbance, when he is from home, to attack, steal and destroy what we have. Already Papa is on the ship waiting and I stay too long, we must get the tide.’

He bends and kisses the back of each hand, and then he turns her hand and kisses each palm, light as a thistledown. He lets go gently and opens the byre door. ‘I will write you,’ he says, ‘and I will come back.’ Then he is gone.

She takes a hold of the post next to her, for her world is spinning. The tears fall slowly to begin with, but then they flow like a river, and she sobs and sobs while the rain starts up again, battering down on the roof and bouncing off the timbers above her head.

The noise begins as they sit down to their midday meal. Father is from home but Bethia, Mother and John all leap to their feet rattling the board so that the broth slops across the wood, dripping over the edge onto the flagstones, and the collops of bacon look to come sliding after.

‘Mercy me!’ shrieks Agnes, dropping a bowl full of fresh picked brambles.

They run out into the street along with nearly all the people of St. Andrews, covering their ears with each ground–shaking boom. The sound even overpowers the church bells and Bethia cowers down clutching her head when the blast comes again.

At first the family look in consternation at their neighbours, then people begin to move towards the Swallowgait and the castle. Bethia realises John is gone, no doubt at the head of the crowd, which is moving fast now. She picks up her skirts and runs, soon overtaking Mother and Agnes, and even outstripping Grissel.

The townsfolk back up in Ladyheid, and she pushes forward but finds her way blocked. She can see the steel helmets of soldiers bobbing above the crowd ahead, but she can’t get any nearer – no doubt John is among them already. She turns and fights her way back. She’ll try going down Northgait and gain the Swallowgait by its port. She can’t believe that once more she’s running into danger to rescue John – and yet a small part of her finds it arousing. She squashes the thought, although it is a welcome distraction from her aching heart.

But before she can put her plan into effect, the crowd turns screaming, with those at the front scrambling over those slower to react. A cannon ball has landed in their midst, as the Castilians return fire. She presses herself as close to the wall of the nearest house as she can. Lucky it’s newly built of stone; if it was one of the older wooden houses the pressure of people would likely have collapsed the walls.

A woman with her baby in the plaid wrapped tight around her, one arm supporting the child, trips as she is carried past. Bethia catches the woman’s free arm, holding her upright. Her own arm is tugged, the pain in the shoulder socket excruciating, but she hangs on. The woman squeals, but regains her balance, jerks her arm free and flees.

The crowd is thinning now and she sees a few people lying on the ground. She goes to help an old man up, blood dripping from a scrape on his bald head and what looks like a bootprint scoring his cheek. He’s dressed in hessian, tied around his middle by a length of rope and smells strongly of urine. She decides not to offer him her handkerchief to clean the blood off his face. It’s of the softest Flanders linen after all, and was a gift from Aunt Jennet; he’d probably sell it.

Instead she steadies him, breathing through her mouth and trying not to gag, and once he’s upright, judges he can make his way back to the safety of the Mercatgait unaided, assuming the garrison doesn’t start firing into the town centre.

There’s a lull. It’s no doubt hot and heavy work loading, aiming and firing cannons. Hugging the wall, she creeps towards the soldiers who are running back and forward where the street opens onto Swallowgait, the castle towering behind them. The drifting smoke makes her cough and there’s lots of shouting from directly in front of her and more distantly from inside the castle. She reaches the end of the street and peers around the corner. There are soldiers dragging a cannon away from the castle while the Castilians shout insults from above. She’s grabbed by the arm and swung around.