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

He detaches himself from the group, and slinks into the chapel instead. It’s a peaceful place, although considerably barer now the rich hangings have been removed. He sits on the massive chair that would once, no doubt, have been the Cardinal’s, head resting in his hands. The sound of voices comes from outside, the service must be finished and he cannot tarry. He spits on his hands, hauls up his breeches and goes back out, wondering how much longer he can keep this up.

Will and Nydie are called away from their work to speak with Balnaves and Leslie. Will scrubs his face, the water stinging the cuts in his hands, before they climb the stairs to the Cardinal’s chamber like old men, hands pressed to their lower backs.

‘Lee wants the stone cutters brought from your father’s lands,’ says Leslie to James.

‘Although we still have no certainty Arran is tunnelling,’ says Balnaves, gazing out of the window.

Leslie sighs. Will and James wait, eyes on the floor.

‘Nydie lands border the River Eden, do they not?’ Leslie asks.

James nods.

‘Then it is best to go by boat.’

‘Aye, and that may prove difficult since our boat was destroyed,’ says Balnaves turning from the window.

‘And if you went by a boat,’ says Leslie, as though Balnaves had not spoken, ‘which we will acquire, and into the Eden Estuary, you may also go to Erlishall Castle, and get supplies.’

‘That is assuming the Mountquhanys have supplies and at least one more boat in which to carry them. It is wild lands at Tents Muir, caught as they are between the Eden and the Tay.’

‘I think you’ve swallowed a bucket of gloom today, Balnaves,’ says Leslie.

Will can’t help but grin, although it disappears when Leslie turns those protruding eyes on him.

‘You must know the harbour here well.’

Will gulps, Bethia knows the harbour far better than he. One of the many reasons he’s reluctant to go to his father’s warehouse, is the permanent stench of fish around the harbour – and he avoids Fishergate, with its stinking middens full of rotting fish guts, as much as is possible.

Leslie doesn’t wait for an answer. ‘You must get a boat from the harbour and bring it here.’

Will’s mouth falls open.

‘You may need to swim to get to there, for you’ll need to leave by the sea yett. We are too well watched to get out through the gates, and Arran’s troops patrol the gardens now too.’

‘Well, if do this we must,’ says Balnaves, ‘although I still have my doubts about the need for miners, and it means more mouths to feed, then send this lad alone – he’s less likely to be noticed. Young Nydie here can save his strength for the trip to his family’s lands, once we have a boat.’

Leslie rubs his chin, mouth pursed. Will is more than willing to be of a party for he desperately wants a break from mining, to get out of the crowded castle and breath some clean air, and especially to get away from Carmichael, but he doesn’t want to go by himself – and he can only swim a few strokes before he sinks.

‘Aye, that is a good plan.’

‘But, but…’

They stare at Will.

‘There’s a storm.’

Leslie and Balnaves laugh and James rests his hand on Will’s arm.

‘Of course we will wait until it has passed,’ says Leslie. ‘Unless you want to take your chances now – and likely be battered to death on the rocks, if you’re not swept out to sea.’

By the next night, the storm has worn itself out but the moon is obscured by cloud and Will tells Leslie he must have a moon. ‘Else how can I find my way?’

Leslie frowns, but agrees.

‘I must have a low tide,’ says Will when Leslie summons him the following evening.

‘It’ll be Yule in the year of our Lord 1600 before there’s the perfect conjunction of moon, weather and tide. You will take your chance tonight, lad, and make the best of it.’

The moon has risen, late in the night, when he’s let out. He sees the white of James’s face above as he climbs down the rope ladder, the clang of the yett closing, after they’ve hauled the ladder up, loud in the stillness. He strides over the rocks, keen to get to the harbour and be done with this task. His feet go from under him and feels the air beneath him, then he’s on his back, head thumping off the ground. He lies still for a moment on the slimy seaweed before rolling onto his knees and getting up, the breeze chill against his damp back. The moon is casting long shadows making it difficult to work out where to place his feet safely. He picks his way carefully, sinking into the fronds of seaweed, long and thick as a mermaid’s hair, which tangle around his ankles. He slips again, nearly falling into the deep gully between two shoals, the water glistening below him. He can hear the soft shush of waves touching the edge of the long fingers of rock nearby – the tide must be further in than he’d hoped.

Will clambers around the rocky promontory until he’s below the palace chapel. There’s the yellow light of a candle shining from its windows and he wonders who is at prayers so early. He stays close to the cliffs, slipping and sliding sometimes over seaweed and sometimes over a green moss covering the rocks, which glows in the moonlight. It looks dry and safe to walk on but is as treacherous as the seaweed. He’s glad he’ll be returning by boat, would not wish this way on anyone and wonders why there is so much seaweed about when normally it’s collected for the fields. But then no one, he supposes, will feel safe on this shore at the moment.

There is a break in the rocks and the sea ripples ghostly before him. His heart thumps in his chest but he steadies when the first wave breaks over his foot. He looks out over the water lit by the moon: a pathway to heaven; may the saints aid him and keep him safe. He sits down on the rocks chiding himself, for what is he thinking to invoke the saints who are naught but Papist flummery. Sighing he slides into the sea, which is the only way to reach the next shoal. Fortunately the water is only thigh high and he makes progress until he trips, arms flailing to keep his balance.

A pox on Leslie and his big idea, he mutters as he clambers onto the rocks, the barnacles scratching his skin. He’s glad none of the company can see him stumbling around, especially that fat slug Carmichael. He shivers, his wet breeches sticking chill against his skin. He can see the dark line of the pier jutting into the sea – not far to go. The sun is sending its first rays over the horizon when he finally stands on its secure footing. Now to find oars and a boat.

He hears voices, and, instead, he’s looking for a place to hide. He climbs down a ladder and onto the supporting struts of the wooden pier, sinking his head into his shoulders. He’s been too slow, left it too late and with the sun rising on a calm sea, the fishermen will be taking to their boats. He’ll be caught if he tries to steal one.

Hanging there, without much idea of what to do, he realises this is his chance to escape the foul castle and muck-spouts like Carmichael and John Leslie – when he remembers their attack on Beaton he shudders still. He could slip from the harbour back to his home right now, with no one to stop him. Nydie has whispered more than once that he doesn’t trust either Leslie and their whole escapade is more about the Leslies’ revenge on Cardinal Beaton for appropriating lands they considered theirs, than any true belief in the need for the church to reform. Why should he suffer for them? He reminds himself that the Leslies can conspire all they want, but there are some among the Castilians who are honest and faithful. No, it is tempting, but he will never leave men the like of James Melville and William Kirkcaldy of Grange, not to mention his friend James of Nydie – he will stay true. And he would not have Carmichael still unchallenged; their business is not yet done. Now, he must find some oars, steal a boat and get away from here, quick as he can.