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

‘Must I always find you where you should not be, my lady?’

She jumps.

‘Wheesht, I didn’t mean to frighten you.’

She looks into the scarred face and kindly green eyes of the officer from the day of Wishart’s burning. ‘Oh it’s you.’

Before she can say anything further, there’s more shouting and bustle from the mouth of the street. He looks around and pulls her into the relative darkness of the close between two houses.

‘Stay there,’ he commands and leaves her.

She misses him, which she knows makes no sense; he was at her side so briefly – it’s something about the way he looked at her that reminds her of Mainard. There’s a loud rattling over the cobblestones and she glimpses soldiers heaving on ropes, heads hung like half-starved ponies. The captain runs alongside encouraging them.

‘Pull lads, pull. Let’s get our Deaf Meg to safety. We’ll find a sweet spot from which we can pulverise those protesting bastards, I promise you.’

The soldiers heave and grunt, heave and grunt until the cannon wheels get stuck in the mud when they heave and swear. Eventually they stop halfway down the wynd. She realises she’s trapped. If she comes out of hiding, she’ll either have to run the gauntlet past the cannon heavers or, if she escapes the other way, it’ll be past those braying dogs hanging over the castle parapet.

The soldiers are resting against the cannon now, wiping sweat off their grimy faces, and she can’t see their captain anywhere. She slides down the wall and sits on her heels, not caring that her skirts are dipping in the muck. There’s a rush of air followed by a crash and splinters of wood flying. She curls in on herself as something brushes the top of her head and clatters down behind her.

She stays still, coughing in the dust. Across from the vennel where she’s crouching, a door opens to reveal a family of fisherfolk; mother with her bairns crowded around her, man beside her in his sealskin boots. They’re staring down at the empty space, where once their fore-stair was. A child is lowered clinging to an old fishing net, quickly followed by the rest of the family.

The captain returns and bows, proffering his arm. ‘Let me escort you home, my lady,’ he says, eliciting curious looks from the fisher family and their neighbours, and a giggle from Bethia. She knows there’s nothing to laugh about, but his mockery seems so kindly meant she cannot help herself.

‘But we have not been properly introduced, sir.’

‘That is easily rectified. I am Gilbert Logie.’

She starts. ‘Of Clatto?’

He nods. ‘You know of my family?’

‘I think my mother and your mother have met.’ She had been going to say, are friends, but suspects the friendship may all be on her mother’s side. But she doesn’t regret claiming some relationship between their two families; he should know she’s not just any wench wandering the streets.

‘Ah, and you are?’

‘My name is Bethia.’

He offers his arm. ‘Well Bethia of the quiet confidence, and blue eyes that are so appealing, lead the way.’

‘Thank you kindly, my lord.’ She dips a curtsy, enjoying the mild flirtation, despite the soldiers smirking and nudging one another.

Drifting to the work room, and hoping Father has lots for her to do, for she needs the distraction, she hears a knock on the door. She hurries to answer, hoping it might be Gilbert, but blocking out the low afternoon light are Walter Wardlaw and his brother. Wardlaw pushes past her although Norman, who shifts uncomfortably – is he looking apologetic? – bows and stutters a good day.

She welcomes him in return and he lumbers over the door step saying, ‘I have b-b-b-brought you a-a b-b-book, my lady, which I thought you m-m-might like for I under-r-r-s-s-stand you are quite the s-s-scholar.’

Bethia, touched by his thoughtfulness, follows him up to the chamber, where Father is. Norman sits down and fumbles in his bag. She holds out her hand for the book he’s clutching, but he looks up, shoulders hunching, and mumbles, ‘I thought we m-m-m-might read the b-b-book together and I c-c-can explain it to you.’

She bites her lip, holding in a sigh, but it’s hard to reject the appeal in his eyes. He looks like a dog that expects to be kicked, and yet Father says he is not a man to cross in business. ‘What is the title of your book?’ she asks, swallowing a yawn.

‘It is called Historia Gentis Scotorum ,’ says Norman, enunciating each letter and struggling to get past the sco of Scotorum .

‘Oh yes, Hector Boece’s History of the Scottish People . I have already read…’

‘Sit down, Bethia, and look at the book with Norman,’ says Father, while Walter Wardlaw frowns beside him.

She tucks herself into the small space on the settle that is free of Norman’s bulk and he unclasps the book, spreading it open over her lap. Aware that Father is watching, she grits her teeth and allows it. Norman asks if he should translate but she reads aloud, translating as she goes.

Norman looks surprised, ‘that is ve-ve-very good.’ He nods to Father, ‘you have a learned one h-here, Master Seton.’

‘She’s not so bad with the Latin,’ says Father, ‘but more usefully she writes a good hand, can keep the day-book up to date and her figuring is improving.’

‘Those are indeed useful attributes, especially in a wife,’ says Walter Wardlaw.

Why does he stare at her so? She looks from one man to the other to the other. Father avoids her gaze – what is happening here?

‘But a w-w-woman who can read with such ease is indeed a w-wonder,’ says Norman to the men, then smiles at her.

She knows it’s unusual to find a man unfazed by learning in a woman but she wishes he would not look at her so, and his breath smells of onions. The Wardlaws leave soon after, Father glowering when she insists on returning the book, which Norman reluctantly takes.

Wrapping herself in her cloak, she slips out the back door while Father is saying farewells at the front. She wants to speak with Elspeth and find out how things stand, even though the last time they spoke of it, Elspeth was still determined she would never marry Norman Wardlaw, saying, ‘I‘d rather a nunnery than be squashed under that weight.’

Bethia thinks on it as she walks; would she rather a nunnery than Norman? On balance, she thinks she’d tolerate the husband better than the cloisters, but then she’s not having to make such a choice… she hopes. She tugs her cloak more closely around her. They had the first frost last night and Father says that an early frost betokens a hard winter – maybe that’ll drive Will out the castle and home. At least the cold weather means the town won’t smell as bad; it’s been worse than usual recently with all the soldiers here.

She’s knocking on Elspeth’s door when she notices three carts hauled by oxen and heaped with rubble. There are men either side of each cart pushing, as the oxen strain to get the carts over the cobbles. She wonders why they are removing it when it is near dark and the gaits will soon be closed. The door is flung open and she forgets about the carts. Elspeth’s father stands before her, eyes bulging.

Bethia reaches home ahead of Elspeth’s father and bursts into the workroom.

‘Master Niven is coming,’ she pants, bending over to catch her breath.

Father frowns at the interruption but before she can say anything further Elspeth’s father is among them, shouting.

He points at Father. ‘You, you, Judas! Giving houseroom to a son of Satan.’

Father leaps up. ‘What did you say?’

Niven thrusts his face into Father’s. ‘You heard me!’