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

‘And where have you been?’ Father’s voice growls from the darkness.

She jumps, heart thumping.

‘Come here and tell me all. The baith o’ you,’ he barks as John turns to creep back to the safety of Agnes and the kitchen.

Dragging their feet, they come to stand before him.

‘And while you’re explaining your whereabouts, you may also give an explanation as to why I find my book in such a state.’

He holds the open book out, his finger resting on the torn page.

Will cannot believe the hard heart of his mother. She visited the great tower of the Ruthvens by Perth when she was a child, and has desired a painted ceiling ever since. Finally she’s worn Father down and now her ceiling is all she can talk about. The wickedness of Cardinal Beaton, the evil done to George Wishart, even his sister huddled in her corner – all are as nothing to her ceiling.

He stares at Bethia; her blue eyes look huge. Normally so calm and controlled, she’s shivering; hunched over, arms wrapped around herself. He should’ve got her away to safety, and ignorance, but then she shouldn’t have been there – she can be too interfering, and John can look out for himself.

‘The Place of the Ruthvens has patterns in a Celtic knot style, but patterns are commonplace,’ chatters Mother, disregarding the daughter shaking on the settle, the husband glowering at the board and John squirming in pain on his cushion. ‘Lady Merione says the coming thing is cherubs, angels and much scenery – mountains and rivers and the like. And we need strong colours. I favour the yellow-red of orpiment.’

Father tugs on his beard and Will thinks it’s not so far off the colour Mother is seeking for her ceiling.

‘What’s wrong with cow’s blood mixed with a bucket of lime? It makes a bonny pink when painted on a plastered wall,’ he grumbles.

Mother sniffs.

‘Where do you expect to find orpiment anyway? There’s no exactly a volcano nearby.’

‘You’re a merchant and can get anything you want.’

‘God’s death woman, give it a rest.’ He strides from the room, slamming the door behind him. His children look to one another and suddenly Will can bear it no longer. He leaps to his feet and paces up and down, fists clenched tightly, wishing there was something, or someone, to swing them at.

He can hear himself talking, talking about the burning, the cruelty of the Cardinal, the corruption amongst the clergy, and, most of all, about George Wishart.

‘He was such a good man, such a good man,’ he repeats over and over. ‘Did you know he returned to Dundee after the plague broke out? He was already safe away and he went back to help the sick. He was kind and courteous, and he kissed his executioner and forgave him.’

He sees Bethia open her mouth and talks louder to forestall her.

‘And abstemious, he ate only one meal a day and shared it with the poor. Not like the Cardinal, fathering all they children with the whore Marion Ogilvy, and as many more with other strumpets. Some say he has as many as twenty bastards!’

Mother picks up her needlework and sits up, back straight. ‘William, I will not have such talk in my house.’ She leans close to the candle-light screwing up her eyes to thread the needle.

Will throws himself down upon the settle making it rock, not caring that his sister, perching on the other end, is nearly catapulted off. The candle is smoking, the smell of animal fat reeks, and mother wipes her watering eyes. Will tugs his jerkin off, flings it upon the bench, and is off again, pacing and talking.

‘And the Cardinal, you know what evil he did in Perth these three years past. I was but a lad and didn’t know of it, till Norman Leslie told all yesterday.’

‘You’re but a lad still,’ mutters Bethia, gazing at the floor.

Will frowns, and stretches. ‘I may only be fifteen years of age, but I’m taller than most full-grown men and I bid you listen, for these are evil times we live in. Beaton had four people accused of heresy in Perth, and one of them a woman with a newborn bairn at her breast.’

‘Stop this at once, or we’ll all be accused of heresy if it comes to Cardinal Beaton’s ears,’ orders Mother.

Will ignores her. ‘Do you know what the woman was accused of? Not praying to the Virgin more, and especially during the time she was brought to childbed.’

Bethia presses her hands into her stomach and rocks, but Mother says, ‘we should always remember Our Lady, and she is aye there for us in times of great need.’

‘Why, and is not to call on her worthy of drowning? This worshipping of Mary is all a trumpery anyway.’

‘The woman was very wrong not to pray to our Holy Mother. And I’ll have no more of this talk.’

Before he can continue Father returns, carrying his daybook. Will thuds down onto the settle. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Father opening the book and glancing at him. He stares at the floor. This isn’t the time for studying petty transactions; indeed, as far as he’s concerned, it’s never the time.

‘Bethia, lass, fetch me a cup of ale.’

Will hears the weariness in Father’s voice.

Mother looks up and waves Bethia back to her seat. ‘Agnes will bring your ale.’ She rings the little bell on her sewing table. The bell is rung several times with increasing vigour before Agnes’s daughter appears in the doorway, water dripping from her hands.

‘What are ye wanting?’

‘A curtsy first Grissel, to your master and mistress.’

‘You called me from the cleaning o’ the plates to make a curtsy?’

Mother’s lips tighten and Father winks at Will, but he pretends not to see.

‘Fetch the master a cup of ale, girl, and be quick about it.’

Grissel clatters out of the room, leaving the door wide so the cold air from the passageway flows in. Will reaches out a long leg and kicks it shut.

‘It’s time we had new servants, Thomas, some who know what it is to serve,’ says Mother.

‘I won’t turn Grissel or her mother away. Agnes has been with my family since she was naught but a bairn. She has served us well, in her own way.’

‘At least let us have one decent servant to wait upon us. I was mortified today when Lady Merione came to call and Agnes sent that child in her dirty apron and great red hands.’

‘The child’s hands are red raw from all the work she does to care for us. It’s not the time to hire more servants anywise. Ye ken we’re still recovering from the impounding of the Isle of May and its goods confiscated at Veere, although if I had my son as a helpmeet rather than gadding about the county on his seditious pursuits, our fortunes would revive faster.’

Mother puckers her mouth and stabs the needle into the cloth.

Will rises, trips over mother’s footstool and staggers to right himself. He flings the door wide and it bangs off the wall with a satisfying crash. Running down the stairs he grabs his cloak and escapes the house, and his family, in search of some serious, God-fearing discourse.

It’s washing day. Agnes and Grissel are up before dawn on this mild April morning, drawing bucket after bucket of water from the well and stoking the fires to heat it. When Bethia comes down, the washhouse is full of steam and Grissel is in disgrace. She’s tripped over a tub of linens soaking in urine to bleach them, creating a flood across the rough stone floor, and drenching Agnes’s feet and the bottom of her dress.

Agnes, up to her elbows in hot water, scrubs furiously at stains on John’s breeches. Bethia can see by the frown on her wrinkled face it is not the time to point out that the oatmeal is not boiled, a rat has been at the pigeon pie and someone, Grissel she suspects, has broken the butter crock. She slides away, but Agnes calls her back to fetch lavender for rinsing the linens.