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

They set up in the towers and position themselves by the windows for firing down on anything and anyone that’s moving below them. It’s almost too easy. They pick them off like waddling geese, and a great cheer goes up whenever they hit one of Arran’s artillerymen. Soon Arran’s troops withdraw.

Another lull ensues. November is the month dedicated to the Souls in Purgatory and, now the excitement has passed, Will feels as though he may well be one of them. Although he hated the mining, at least it was exciting; boredom sets in once more. He wonders what manoeuvre Arran’s going to execute next, for surely he cannot allow the siege to continue unchallenged.

It’s not long before he finds out.

On 23 rdNovember 1546, Will is sent up to the top of the block house to oversee guard duty. It’s a grey day; grey sky merges with grey sea. They haven’t seen the sun for a week; even the constant wind has failed to blow the clouds away enough to uncover it. Water droplets rest on walls, doors and floors, drifting in through unglazed windows and apertures, leaving everything damp and slimy to the touch. What little light there is soon begins to fail as the short day tips into the long Scottish winter night. He strides back and forth across the battlement, swinging his arms, but he cannot remember the last time he was warm.

He’s not alone in his vigil, but feels disinclined to speak to his fellows. What can he say to them anyway; that he hates this castle as much as they do? Better to stay silent. That is until Morrison hails him to come see, and they all hang over the parapet puzzling, through the dimness, about what is going on in the streets below.

Arran’s guard is lining up in front of the castle, within firing distance but on horseback. Will shouts to his fellows to get the brazier going so they’re ready to fire at need, although the horses will likely give the troops the necessary speed to escape any cannon fire, and he judges they are out of range of musket shot. It would be difficult to fire in any case, for darkness is near upon them.

They fuss around the brazier nevertheless, and Will sends a man running down the spiral stairs all the way to the kitchen, as he was once sent, to get a tray of burning embers to light the damp faggots of wood. The wood is supposed to have been kept covered, but someone has neglected their duty. And it’ll be his head that will roll if cannon fire is needed and they cannot deliver it.

A trumpet blasts out and he sprints back to the parapet. All the church bells of St Andrews peal at once then fade away. A procession of priests come in pairs down the Swallowgait from the cathedral, carrying torches which they wave back and forth like firebrands. They’re singing but the singing is not as in the kirk, solemn yet uplifting; it is a chanting which hurts the ears and sets the body trembling.

The soldiers beneath clash their arms, the noise reverberating off the castle walls, and lower their flags to the ground. By the light of the torches he sees a cleric in full regalia being carried high on a chair. The priests part and he passes through them, then he too is lowered to the ground. He stands in front of the soldiers on horseback, with the priests fanning out behind.

The Castilians have poured from every nook and crevice in the castle and are leaning out of windows and hanging over parapets. They’re strangely silent, but it would be difficult to be heard above the cacophony rising from the choir below. Will’s whole body vibrates to the sound, his heart beating as though it will burst from his chest and the blood roaring in his ears. He looks to his right and sees Norman Leslie himself standing next to him.

Once more St Salvators leads the way, its church bell tolling; the other church bells follow. Will covers his ears as the satanic crescendo from the choir peaks, then fades. The cleric raises his arms to heaven and slowly lowers them making the sign of the cross. Then he begins to speak.

‘The Bishop of Rome, servant of all the servants of God, according to the duty of the Apostolic charge and to maintain the purity of the Christian faith, doth send you his word.’

He again makes the sign of a cross, his arms sweeping wide.

‘You are guilty of the crime of high treason, and worse, in following the path of heretical teaching. We curse all heretics.’

There is an intake of collective breath from the men surrounding Will. He, himself, can barely breathe at all.

‘To preserve the holy communion of the faithful, we follow the ancient rule and accordingly do excommunicate the killers of Cardinal Beaton together with all those persons, whoever they may be, who aid and abet them, in the name of God Almighty, the Father.’

Will is an aider and abetter; this Great Cursing from the Holy Father in Rome includes him.

‘Wherefore in the name of God the All-powerful, Father, Son, and Holy Ghost; of the Blessed Peter, Prince of the Apostles, and of all the Saints; in virtue of the power which has been given us of binding and loosening in Heaven and on earth, we deprive Norman Leslie and all his accomplices of the Communion of the Body and Blood of Our Lord, we separate him from the society of all Christians, we exclude him from the bosom of our Holy Mother the Church, in Heaven and on earth, we declare him excommunicated and anathematised. We judge him condemned to eternal fire with Satan and his demons, and we deliver him unto Satan to mortify his body, that his soul may be in torment until the Day of Judgement.’

In the ghostly light cast from the torches Will can see Norman Leslie. Whatever bravado he may show later, Will knows Leslie is tight with fear. He’s leaning into the parapet as though he cannot stand upright without its support. No man can be brought up in the bosom of Mother Church and not know terror when they are cast out. The agony of George Wishart as he burned is as nothing to what Leslie, Will and their fellows are condemned to suffer – for they will burn in the fire pits of hell, for all eternity.

The trumpet blasts out once more. The cleric sits back down upon his chair and is raised aloft by his bearers, the priests resume their dirge as they turn away, torches held high, and the soldiers on horseback follow. Soon the space in front of the castle is still; it is over and their eternal souls are damned.

Leslie pushes himself off the rampart.

‘May God roast them and guide their steps to hell,’ he says loudly.

There’s a muttering amongst the men but no cheers of support; Leslie’s words ring hollow.

The Great Cursing has left Will bereft. He’s always believed that he would pass through the gates of Heaven with ease, and if he helped reform to happen then surely his place would be assured. He tells himself it is of no matter to be excluded, thrown out, cursed – but it does matter. He watches Norman Leslie bluster about how the Pope is the Antichrist, and knows that Leslie too is shaken.

Sitting on a stool in the great hall in the dark of night with the wind howling outside and in, his aching head in his hands, he tries to untangle the politics in his head; even though it was never supposed to be about politics but about faith and salvation. Meanwhile men snore all around.

There’s a loud bang and he jumps, overturning his stool and looking fearfully behind him. The glass is rattling loosely in the long window, as though someone is trying to get in. A man by his feet, gives a guttural snort and rolls over, but otherwise the sleepers seem undisturbed. Will chides himself for his feebleness, wraps his jerkin tight around and settles back to his thoughts. It’s the same thought sifting through his head; they should not have murdered Beaton, he should have been tried and then justly executed. He sees the Cardinal’s slumped body, the blood spurting, his pleading face as he died. Round and around it goes, until he’s ready to thump his own head off the wall.