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

Before he can move, the voices draw close. A rope is being tugged, hauling a boat alongside the quay. He sees a pair of legs, someone is descending the ladder. Will buries his face in his arm and holds his breath, praying he goes undiscovered. His prayer is answered, and the man passes him. He hears the thump of feet on boat and risks a peek, straight into Bethia’s startled face.

‘You’re wearing breeches,’ he says.

She has the grace to blush. ‘I was coming to you.’

‘I need to take the boat.’

She raises her eyebrows and continues her descent.

He watches from above as Grissel’s uncle holds out his hand to steady her. He can’t help but notice her confidence. There’s something about wearing breeches that seems to have freed her – when it should shame her.

She settles herself and looks up at him. ‘Geordie and I are ready to go, are you coming, or would you prefer to hang there?’

He’s furious. God’s blood, she’s a girl, how dare she look at him with those straight blue eyes. He climbs out from the struts and onto the ladder, which he descends rapidly, and readies himself to jump.

‘Whoah,’ says Geordie, ‘take care or you’ll have us tippet-ower.’

He lowers his leg and feels Bethia’s small hand grab it, placing his foot on the seat; his sister thinks herself very important. He sits down in the front of the boat and they cast off, pulling strongly away, hugging the cliffs that he’s just scrambled over to the detriment of his knees, hands and clothes.

‘I was coming to the bishop’s palace because…,’ Bethia begins.

He raises his hand. Let her come. She’s so busy with her own concerns she doesn’t ask about his, about why he should risk life and limb to get to the harbour. Let her come, and once they reach the castle he’ll take the boat, and Geordie to row it. Let her find her own way back to the comfort of their home. If she’s going to adopt the dress and mannerisms of a man, let her find out what it means to be one and to have to look out for herself, instead of expecting others to take care of her frailties.

Other fishing boats are taking to the water as they pull away. The ships patrolling are standing well out to sea, obviously more watchful for anything coming from the South and England than from the harbour, and Will thinks they’ll gain the castle safely, especially now the tide is well in.

Bethia tries to speak, but he holds his hand up and shakes his head each time. What can she possibly have to tell him, apart from more pleas for his return home, and he will not go. His decision was made once and for all as he hung under the quay just now.

She folds her hands in her lap and he’s left with his thoughts; the only sound is the oars dipping in the sea and the cry of a lone seagull floating on the wing above. If he wasn’t so furious he would enjoy the stillness but, in the face of Bethia’s serenity, he cannot. He’s sure she’s pretending – she used to do this when they fought as children; the angrier he got, the calmer she became, which made him even angrier. He grinds his teeth, loud as Father, at the memory.

They near the castle. Will has not seen it from the sea before; it is a forbidding sight, although the brown smears down the walls below the privy chutes show its occupants’ frailties. Bethia fumbles with a bundle in her lap and drops her skirts over her head, tying the strings tightly at her waist. He’s relieved she’s not entirely lost to modesty, and more relieved yet that he’ll not have to defend her honour from the leers and asides if she entered the castle wearing breeches. She makes no further attempt to tell him why she is come. And, as he follows her out of the boat, over the rocks, and up the ladder he still chooses not to ask.

‘It is said you have a siege engineer within, sent by King Henry,’ she says, as they pass through the open postern.

He doesn’t reply but Nydie, who’s unbarred the gate, says indeed they do. She turns and looks at Will, but he stares at the ground.

‘Please take me to him. I’ve some information he may find useful.’

He feels his face redden: how dare she issue orders.

They pass the kitchens and he can see a puny fire is burning in the centre of the huge fireplace with a pot hanging over it. Getting the fixings to light fires is increasingly difficult. They have long since used up the Cardinal’s store of coal and wood; indeed they are now burning his furniture and books.

They enter the courtyard. Nydie rushes ahead, presumably to let Richard Lee know he has a visitor. Bethia lifts her feet, and, as he draws abreast of her, he sees her face wrinkle in disgust at what’s sticking to them. The stench is throat-clogging after breathing sea air – even with Balnaves’s clean ups.

Suddenly she grabs his arm. ‘Will, you must come home. If you do not, Father will make me wed Norman Wardlaw.’

‘Who?’

‘You know, Fat Norman,’

‘Oh, him. Why?’

‘Because Father says our reputation will be as nothing once it is known you are among the Castilians, and we will be punished for it.’

‘That makes no sense. Why it’s more likely to be of advantage to have me as part of the garrison.‘ He knows this isn’t so, even as he speaks, for his fellows have alienated the townsfolk.

She shakes her head. ‘You cannot prevail. I have it on good authority, from one of his officers, that Arran’s now determined to end this siege quickly. Oh Will, please come home.’

Before he can answer, Carmichael strolls out from under the portico, that supercilious smirk on his face which Will wants to smash each time he sees it.

‘Well, boy, what have we here? Have you brought your wee sister to look after you?’

She behaves as though Carmichael doesn’t exist, looking past him to Melville following behind. He’s proud of her, especially when he notices Carmichael’s face flush.

‘Don’t ignore me, you puffed up hussy,’ he says, reaching out to grab her by the shoulder. Melville knocks Carmichael’s hand away before Will can react, offering his arm to Bethia

‘Come, my lady,’ he says, ‘let me escort you. I hear you wish to speak with Master Lee.’

Will knows Melville to be an honest if dour man, and is surprised to see him behave with such courtliness. But then Melville does surprise. He can never look at him without remembering the calm delivery of the killing blow, as he listed the Cardinal’s evil doings.

They stride towards the guard-room. Carmichael sticks his foot out as Will passes, but he sees in time, leaps over, keeps going and doesn’t give Carmichael the satisfaction of reacting; now is not the time, and he’s discovering a certain pleasure can be had from it.

Richard Lee is leaning over the second pit they’ve started, calling down to the miners to put their backs into it. If Lee took up the pick-axe himself more often, he’d be more understanding of how painful it is to wield for a prolonged period, indeed, for any period.

Melville introduces Bethia to Lee, and he looks her up and down. Will bristles at this treatment of his sister, but the next moment he’s back to wanting to give her a skelp. She’s saying the Castilians are digging in the wrong place, she knows that Arran’s troops are mining, and where. Why could she not have told him what she was here for, and why is he only hearing it now? If she’d shared the information, he’d have told his fellow conspirators and been the hero, which would make a welcome change from feeling the dunce.

Lee’s all courtesy and consideration now: taking Bethia by the elbow; leading her above to the Cardinal’s rooms; introducing her to Young Arran. Will notices Bethia doesn’t admit to already having met James Hamilton. Lee calls for some wine for the lady. He glares at Will hovering in the doorway asking what he wants, and if it is nothing of import to get back to work.